Karma
by Bicoastal
Summary: Heather learns that sometimes there are consequences to our lives we never considered.
1. Default Chapter

**Karma  
**From Merriam Webster: Karma Function: _noun_  
Etymology: Sanskrit _karma _fate, work  
1 _often capitalized_: the force generated by a person's actions held in Hinduism and Buddhism to perpetuate transmigration and in its ethical consequences to determine the nature of the person's next existence

**Heather**

I pick up the phone.

"Ms Marazek, yes, thank goodness we've reached you. Doctor Phal needs to see you again as soon as it's convenient. What time is good for you?"

I freeze. The receptionist's tone is faintly stiff; she knows something she can't say over the phone, I can tell. The smug little hint of it in her voice gives it away and I take a breath to regain my composure. My last appointment was only a week ago. The tests are due back-

"This afternoon, at four if you have an opening," I reply, checking the clock in the kitchen. Thank goodness Jim's busy with a deposition today. If he were here he'd be looking at me with those worried eyes. I couldn't take that right now. Bad enough he was there when I started bleeding a few months ago, commiserating with me on what was probably the start of early menopause. But I haven't wanted to worry him about the rest of it.

The coughing and headaches

The sleeplessness.

The reflux of bile and continual afternoon fatigue.

"We have an opening at four ten. We'll see you then," the receptionist chirps, and hangs up, leaving me to stare off into the kitchen with the receiver in my hand, suddenly feeling very alone. I'm torn now, terribly torn. I want to know what's wrong with me so I can get on with facing it—and at the same time I don't want to know.

It isn't fair. I've handled the diabetes most of my teen and adult life, and that's been no picnic. I've had measles and shingles and broken ribs. Even though I took care of myself when I was carrying Zoë, I still ended up with preeclampsia and tied tubes. I watch my weight even though I don't really want to, I exercise, even though I don't really want to, I take my vitamins and don't drink or smoke—

I'm sure it's cancer. Doctor Phal won't sugarcoat it if it is, and I'll just have to deal with it.

As I step out of the shower I wonder what sort it is. One of my uncles died of stomach cancer, and according to my mother it was a terribly painful way to go. I rub my stomach ruefully. Yes medical science has made a lot of inroads, but still—

It could be something blood-related. Phal took several tubes, teasing me about being part vampire—do women my age get leukemia? I always associated it with children. And if I had leukemia wouldn't I feel more run down? I towel off and contemplate my body in the mirror of the bathroom, letting my gaze travel over myself.

It's been a good body. I do like parts of it, unlike Jim, who seems to think EVERY aspect of me is amazing. That sort of devoted blindness I don't mind, and if he's willing to overlook my overly pointy elbows or big feet or scars, then who am I to complain?

I lean forward and glare at myself, shaking my wet bangs out of my face. "You have Magyar blood in your veins, woman. Deal." I snap at my reflection.

In my only concession to vanity I admit: I so do not want to lose my hair to chemotherapy.

In the waiting room I listlessly glance at magazines, not reading, not remembering anything I've looked at. My cell phone rings and I open it, seeing a familiar number and feeling a stomachdrop of dread.

Time to put on a show.

"Hey hon. Wanted to see if you were still interested in pizza later."

"Ah, sure, sounds great."

Actually it sounds awful; when I'm upset I have no appetite for anything, but I can't let Jim sense anything.

"So I called the house but you weren't in—shopping? Did I catch you at a bad time?" he says in that ruthlessly loving way he has. Jim can't help being a detective, even when he's not aware of it, and I smile crookedly.

"No, never a bad time to talk to you my darling. I'll be home when my appointment's over."

"Appointment?" here it comes. Nothing gets by this man, and I regret my slip. I take in a deep breath.

"Yes. Doctor Phal's office called. They needed to see me."

"They called you." His words echo in my ear and we both sort of pause. We both know this isn't normal. We both know it means something serious.

"Jim—" I begin and stop. What can I say? I'm weak; I want him with me. His voice rolls out again before I can speak.

" Okay, I'll be there in about ten minutes." Now I can hear the change in his tone, shifting from playful to something a little steelier, and just hearing it gives me a sense of relief.

He'll be here when I hear it. Thank God. I fight the tears and let my eyes close, just waiting.

And waiting. The office is busy around me. Other people are talking to the receptionist, making further appointments and co-payments. I try to lose myself in an issue of Cosmo with no luck. I am not interested in the New Colors of the Month, and I don't need any more Tricks In Bed My Man Will Love. He wears me out as it IS, thank you, without resorting to tricks of any sort—unless you call the time we played around with the tub of Cool Whip—

Jim walks through the waiting room door, catching me in mid-blush. I rise to receive his gentle peck on the cheek and he looks at me carefully.

"You look flushed—" he observes. I give him my most mysterious smile.

"Memories."

"Good ones?"

"Cool Whip."

Now he's blushing. With aplomb he sits on the sofa beside me, shooting me one of his 'not now' looks and then glances around the room. Against my side, I'm feeling the bulge of his holster through his coat.

"When's your appointment?" he demands softly, looking at me once again, his expression more serious. I bite my lip and check my watch.

"Seven minutes ago. Phal must be running late," I reply softly. I feel his big hand steal into mine and I grip it tightly. We don't say anything. We don't have to.

The screening nurse comes over to me a few minutes later, nodding, a chart in her arms.

"This way, Ms. Marazek—"

We both rise; follow her down the hall to one of the little exam rooms. Jim moves to one corner, big and quiet. The nurse eyes him a moment, then turns to me. She takes my blood pressure, my temperature, noting it all down on the chart. I shift restlessly, because even though all this little normal processing is necessary, I just want to get ON with it.

"The doctor will be with you shortly." She assures me.

More waiting. Jim comes over and lays a hand on my shoulder. I draw in a deep breath. I say it.

"I'm frightened."

The hand tightens on my shoulder. A kiss lands on my temple and I feel the warm support flowing from him to me in that lovely wordless connection we have.

The door opens, and Doctor Phal walks in. He's a long lean Asian man with a thick mustache and round glasses, and I've been seeing him for almost six years. He blinks up at me, his eyes wide, kind.

"Heather. Thank you for coming in so promptly." He looks at Jim, and for a moment he pauses, sizing him up and then extends a hand. Jim shakes it.

"Jim Brass." No title, no explanation. Ooh, I can't help but grin at that little macho-ism. Jim is such a . . . presence at times. Doctor Phal nods politely and scoops up my chart from the counter.

"Pleased to meet you. Let's go into my office, shall we?"

This is unusual. I follow Doctor Phal down the hall to his corner office, Jim close behind me. We enter, and take the chairs in front of the desk while Phal slips into his seat behind it. I'm tense now, because he's closed the door. That's for privacy of course, but also a hint that things are—serious.

Phal lays open the chart. I can't help but notice he has several other charts out as well, and one of them is from Desert Palms. He clears his throat.

"Heather, I got the test results back from your physical last week. Most of them were just fine. You're doing well with your diabetes management, and your liver panel and white cell count is great. In fact, I wish more of my patients took care of themselves the way you do. It would certainly make my job easier," he begins. I sense a build up and grip the arms of my chair.

"Thank you."

"That being said, I needed to talk to you about your pelvic exam." He smiles a little ruefully and I wait.

"I know we've been trying to figure out why you were bleeding, so as you know we did put you through the battery. The Pap test came back negative, as did the screenings for any STDs of course. No bladder infections, we ruled out any kidney problems. Your hormone levels were within normal range—but, we did find an anomaly with your HCG levels."

I look at him. He blinks back at me. "Human chorionic gonadotropin."

Still clueless here. Jim is leaning forward though.

"Heather, there's no other way to put this. You're pregnant," Doctor Phal tells me gently.

Right.

Of course.

Makes sense except for the whole tied tubes issue.

"Pregnant?" Jim echoes in a deep, slow wondering voice, "Um Doc, are you sure you have the right test results?"

He nods, a small amazed smile, and flips a chart around so that Jim and I can look to where he points one finger. A line of numbers that mean nothing to me, personally.

"Absolutely. It's all here, run three times for verification. Of course, knowing Heather's physical history, I was highly skeptical myself, but we ran another test on the urine sample and came up with the same positive results. So I requested the files on your tubal ligation, Heather, and looked it over."

He clears his throat. "You had your operation after the birth of your daughter nineteen years ago at Desert Palms, which meant the standard procedure at that time was a simple cut and suture. No cauterizing, no capping which is what we do NOW to further prevent what I see has happened here."

"Pregnant?" I finally mutter weakly. Doctor Phal nods again, and continues.

"Clearly one of your Fallopian tubes has managed fuse together again, with an unobstructed flow. Once that happened, your cycle started up again and THAT was your unexpected bleeding. You reported that you had what you thought was breakthrough bleeding three times, and then it stopped. So you had three cycles and then became . . ."

"—Pregnant," Jim finishes softly. For a moment the office is utterly silent. I can feel my pulse moving in fast throbs through me, circulating, nourishing a little life in me—

Oh.

Oh.

Jim's baby.

My baby.

Doctor Phal clears his throat and folds his hands on the desk. "Exactly. And although this sort of situation is rare, I'm afraid it does happen. Out of every ten thousand women with tubal ligations, one hundred and forty three a year DO become pregnant again. By our best estimation, you're about six weeks along at the moment."

I can't speak, I can't think, all I can do is sit and stare at the reports on the desk, the papers and clips and highlighted lines and try to breathe but it's hard to do.

Oh God. Zoë. What will my baby think?

My MOTHER!

Ababyababyababy-

"If you want to terminate the pregnancy we can arrange to do that too, Heather. I know this is all a shock to you, but I wanted you to know the facts as soon as possible," Phal tries to soothe me. Instead I turn blindly to Jim.

"Doc, if we could have a minute—" I hear him croak. Phal nods and slips out.

God the harbor of Jim's hug has never felt so good, so perfect. He's got his big arms around me and I feel myself let go of everything in one big sob. My cancer fears and annoyance and frustration and shock all come choking out in big noisy gulps as the tears flow fast and wet. I don't know what I'm feeling as the purge goes on, but I cling to Jim, grateful to have this rock in a wool suit with his arms around me.

"Shhhhhh, it's going to be all right, Heather, it is, trust me . . ." I finally hear part of his soothing litany and turn to look up at him. I know I'm a blotchy mess; some women can cry and look gorgeous, but I'm definitely not one of them. My eye look like boiled onions and my nose goes deep red when I'm in the throes of tears. He flashes me a crooked little smile as I wind down a little, fading into hiccups.

"You're beautiful, you know that, right?"

"Jim!" I laugh a little, impatiently wiping my face with the heel of my palm. I feel the tug of new tension between us now and I don't know what to say. A rush of fear washes through me as I look up at him.

"What . . . are we going to . . . DO?" I manage to choke out over my fear. His arms tighten around me, and his voice in my ear is low and slow.

"It's up to you, hon. But if I had MY way . . ." he hesitates, and I give him a squeeze to make him go on. Jim clears his throat noisily and continues in the same soft voice. " . . . If I had my way, I'd go get us registered at Babies R Us."

I sob anew, and Jim tenses, but between my little gulps I manage to blurt out, " LOVE . . . you!" and he hugs me again. I feel my hair getting wet where his cheek is pressing against it and for a long, long moment it's a perfect world right here.

**Jim**

Heather takes the night off. I take the night off. We never do this. Both of us are such creatures of habit and solid work ethics that although we've been tempted, we haven't actually played hooky to be with each other before.

Now seems the right time. Oh boy. We have things to discuss, and heaven knows neither of us would really be able to concentrate at our respective jobs anyway, so as she finishes giving Pauline instructions, I hang up my call to the office to find her nodding at me. We stand in the lobby of the doctor's office for a moment, and Heather finally sighs. I reach for her chin, tilt it and kiss her, then rumble, "I still vote for doing the pizza thing. I'll meet you at your place in about an hour, say, with a medium. Any requests?"

"No anchovies."

"Coulda guessed that one. You going to be okay to drive?" that slips out before I can stop myself, but she nods, clutching her purse, her eyes still a little red. I debate with myself on letting her go, but kiss her again, and watch her cross the parking lot to get into her Miata. It pulls out into traffic and I make my way to my own car, climbing in, moving on autopilot as I work hard at not thinking for the moment.

Tuscany Pizza is open, and I put in my order, nodding at Vinnie while I stare at the posters on the wall: Venice, Rome, Naples—places I've never been and probably never will. Not that I ever wanted to go to Italy per se, but I can tell finances are going to have to change pretty quick. I'll need to start a college fund, and redo my beneficiaries on my insurance and pension and . . .

"Here ya go, fifteen twenty," Vinnie rumbles at me, breaking into my thoughts. I pick up the box and head out, finally giving in to my inner musings because it's the only way I'm going to be able to keep my sanity.

Heather's pregnant and I got her that way.

That sounds so . . . weird. And good, actually. I won't lie and say I've been a saint in the sexual responsibility department all my life, but I've been pretty careful. Karen and I were careful—well, up to a point. After Ellie it was emotionally moot, but I kept up the belief that I had accountability in the marriage—

My stomach hurts and I feel a heat rising up in me. I need to pull over, so I do, into the parking lot of a tax return place. Just as I park I can feel my hands trembling as the hot truth hits me and let it wash over me. It's hitting hard, and I'm so glad Heather isn't seeing this right now, not when she's got enough of her own to cope with.

Oh jeez, this one's MY baby.

Not that Ellie wasn't, but—damn it. I'm losing it, feeling my face get wet, feeling torn between the pain of the one who's no longer here and the one yet to come.

Both mine, but differently. I'm facing fatherhood again, and the reality of it is broadsiding me right now; all the memories tangling up with hopes and fears. So DAMN much to think about. To consider. Heather's health. My age. The big changes this is going to make in our lives. And intersprinkled in that little bubbles of amazingly good things too—Two PM feedings, and first steps and piggyback rides, and somewhere in the middle of all THAT a little face I hope to God gets Heather's looks instead of mine . . .

Yeah, yeah grown man crying his eyes out here—move along, nothing to see-

After a while I rub one big hand over my face and check my watch, annoyed that I've been sitting here almost half an hour, so I start the car and head over to Heather's trying to pull it together. I'm not usually this strung out, but most guys would have to admit that hearing you're going to be a father at 52 with a woman fifteen years younger and supposedly infertile to boot—

I pull up, park and carry the box up to the porch. The door swings open and Heather stands there. She's been crying again, and when she sees me with my own reddened eyes she manages one of those little wet chuckles that makes me feel suddenly that much more connected to her. She steps back and I come in, moving to set the pizza down on the kitchen table then turn to take her in my arms again.

She's a good fit. Perfect. This hug is all about reconciling ourselves beyond the separate crying jags we've both just gone through. I don't cry often; like a lotta guys it takes a helluva lot of emotion for me to do it, but I feel better for it when it happens. Karen saw me do it maybe twice in our whole marriage. Heather's seen it three times in less than a year, and that right there says it all in terms of truth and trust, I guess.

Suddenly I don't want to sit at the kitchen table, so I look at Heather and herd her into the living room.

"We're camping out right here. I'll get the pillows and blankets and you get the pizza," I tell her, getting that arch look I've come to love so much. Heather glances around and softens a little; she nods, and we start getting it set up.

A nest of pillows, a fluff of blankets, and within a few minutes we're settled in. I have my back against the sofa, Heather in my lap, a blanket over us and a slice of pizza in my spare hand. Talk about all your creature comforts in one compact bundle, eh? She reaches for her own slice, munching it delicately, and the feel of her against me is very soothing. For a while in mutual unspoken consent, we simply dine.

I like to watch Heather eat—she has got to be one of the daintiest eaters I've ever seen. My mother would have adored her for that alone: little even mouthfuls, slow chews, graceful sips—all those table manners I fought against during my formative years. It's like watching a doe graze, and I suppose part of it is all the work she puts in controlling her diabetes.

But mostly it's just her— unselfconsciously feminine and graceful. Brings out the protective side of me more than I admit, and makes me feel very—strong, which is something I definitely need at the moment. So I nuzzle her and breathe in her scent, now supplemented by pizza and sigh.

"Ready for some serious talk?" I rumble. She nods, finishing a little section of crust and turning her face up to me. I look at her for a long moment while she decides.

"Almost. Blood sugar's about right and I'm feeling much better being RIGHT here—" her cheek drops to the hollow of my throat, and I like that and I sigh a little.

"Okay. We have a timeline before us, Heather, of approximately thirty two weeks, give or take the odd fortnight, before the arrival of the world's most cunningly conceived child. I have a few thoughts on what constitutes a priority."

"Cunningly conceived child?" she murmurs in a soft tone half of wonder, half of barely repressed amusement, and I nod.

"Come on, honey, think about it—what did that doctor of yours say—only 194 women out of 10,000? Sounds pretty miraculous to me."

"Agreed," she nods after a moment, her hair brushing my shirt. "And yes, I can think of a few priorities myself. Obviously I need to find an obstetrician, preferably one who specializes in diabetic pregnancies. Phal can probably recommend someone."

"Good first main concern," I tell her, glad she and I are on the same wavelength there. I heard about her pregnancy with Zoë and their complications back in the early days of our relationship, and how lucky Heather was that time. Nevertheless, I don't intend on being foolish and assuming everything will be okay. She snuggles into me and I let a hand slide down from around her shoulder to gently stroke her waist; she laughs a little at my unsubtle attempt to feel her tummy.

"Jim, you know I'm not going to start showing for about three months."

"So I need a baseline for comparison—" I tell her, gently sliding my hand until it rests just under her navel. The warm skin there; I remember kissing it only a day ago.

"This sort of pushes a timetable I had in mind for a while, Heather, and I need you to start thinking about what the two of us are going to do before the tadpole gets here. We have two households . . . " I trail off, feeling her stiffen a little. She cautiously makes a little affirmation sound then blurts out,

"Darling, you don't HAVE to marry me you know."

God I love this woman! I frown a little, feeling a compassionate rush at her nobility, her independent nature.

"Not unless your mother takes a shotgun to me, and given her height that might mean our baby will be an only child."

"James Brass!" she tries to look angry, but giggles instead. I shake my head and take her hand, kissing the ring finger. Corny, but I feel a little emotional today, what the hell.

"Heather, I WANT to marry you. I have for a pretty long time now. This should not be news to you."

Now it's her turn to blink hard. She dips her dark head, resting it on my collarbone and the weight of it feels just right.

"I've had . . . suspicions," she admits.

"You detective you—a regular Agatha Christie in leather." I tease. She snorts a little.

"All I'm saying is we don't have to rush, Jim."

"That's right. We have a whole nine months for me to wear you down and drag you off to the nearest chapel. I have this coupon Nick gave me—how do you feel about intergalactic love, Heather?"

I feel her laugh against me again, and my arms around her feel so good. The universe is unfolding just the way it's supposed to right now. I have the woman I love, I have a child from our love, and suddenly I duck my head, sending a prayer of thanks up for this particular moment.

"I have this urge to get married by Elvis, Jim. And I'll wear my work gear, how about that?" Heather teases. I just kiss her temple.

"Keep that up and I'll book us into the Liberace Museum—" I threaten. Heather glares up at me, her beautiful mouth twitching and I kiss her again, this time right on those enticing lips.

Perfection.

"First things first—and that means a long nap. Then, we have a doctor to find, and nuptials to consider and I'll start getting my paperwork redone." I list. Heather nods.

"Fair enough. And you're right about that first one, dear heart—nap time."

We clean up, drag the blanket and pillows back, and tumble into bed, curling ourselves into the cuddle of sleep that's so familiar, so needed to me now. I wrap around Heather as we settle in, feeling the warmth of sleep stealing over us. So many changes coming our way. But one thing I'm absolutely certain of, come hell or high water.

This kid's going to be a hockey fan.


	2. 2

**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and we do not have permission to borrow them. All the others belong to us, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask us first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. **

**Spoilers: "Slaves of Las Vegas" and "Lady Heather's Box" **

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

**Heather**

I'm astonished to realize how much I've forgotten. For all the first precious moments, the new understandings, the determination to hold on and remember, many things slipped away. Only now are they returning, as I experience them again.

The sudden reminder that my acid stomach means I'm sharing living space, not that I've eaten something disagreeable.

The renewed wonder whenever I catch sight of myself in a mirror. There's no visible difference yet, of course, but-

The awed look in Jim's face when his gaze drops to my middle. Different man-thank Heaven-but that same humble joy.

The intensely private nature of the whole thing. So far, the only people who know are Jim and myself and Dr. Phal; well, and his receptionist, but she doesn't count. Jim has kept silent. I haven't told Pauline, though I should; I haven't even told Zoë, and I really need to. It's frightening to realize that I have no idea how my baby's going to react to this news.

My rationalization-and it's a weak one-for general silence is that it's early days yet. So many pregnancies don't last beyond the first weeks, and losing a baby is terrible enough without its being public.

That's an excuse that's reasonable for most people, and perhaps even for my mother, whose comprehension isn't quite what it used to be, but none at all for my daughter or my friend. Not telling them is bordering on irresponsibility.

And yet, and yet-

_One more day, _my heart whispers. _One more day to keep this secret between just the two of you. _

I stand up, suddenly restless, and pace across my office. The ordinary sounds of nightly normality are all around, howls and shrieks and commands, but they are muffled by the walls. I've delegated most of my work tonight, and Pauline knows something's up, but she's saying nothing-she just watches me out of those gorgeous cool eyes and keeps her suspicions to herself.

Actually, it'll be fun to tell her. Whatever she's thinking, it's certainly not _that._ I'll be curious as to whether my news actually surprises her, though. "Imperturbable" was coined for Pauline.

And there she is, her knock on my door perfunctory and unique; she pushes it open even as she raps, in the old familiar pattern, knowing that if I wanted privacy it would be locked. "Derek says a party just booked for tomorrow night, and your 2:30 will be ten minutes late," she reports calmly.

I sigh. Sometimes I think Pauline would be calm if the mountains surrounding Vegas were falling on our heads. "All right. Mr. Tresor is testing his boundaries again." Striding over to my computer, I take a look at tomorrow night's schedule and its new addition. "We can use the poolhouse-how many in the party?"

"Eight." She's looking particularly good tonight in leather, though like most of my employees she'll probably change costume at least two or three times throughout a shift. The back of my mind goes off on a tangent of worry on how I'll outfit myself when I start to show, but I shut it down for the moment.

"Hmm." We don't usually take parties-my Dominion is not a tourist attraction-but Derek's judgment is excellent, which is why he is often assigned to handle booking. "Yes, that will work. Tell Sapphire and Chen."

Pauline nods. The exchange would sound harsh to an outsider, but Pauline and I have worked together long enough to have communication down to an art, and she prefers efficiency to courtesy in private anyway. "Anything else, Lady Heather?"

The wild imp of impulse escapes its chains. "I'm pregnant."

Half of me is appalled that I let our secret slip-so much for my heart's desire. The other half watches Pauline with interest.

One slender brow arches, slowly, and I know I have surprised her. She steps into my office and shuts the door carefully, but doesn't lock it; no one will come in without permission, she is the only one with entrance privileges.

"I thought you had a tubal ligation." She cocks her head, and I drop into my desk chair with a sigh. Pauline takes another seat opposite me and looks inquiring.

"So did I." There's a certain relief in telling her, I realize. The guilt of keeping quiet, when my health and that of the baby could be at stake, was weighing on me. "Apparently, once in a while they...ah...repair themselves."

This time both brows go up. Her eyes narrow, and she's silent for a moment before finally speaking. "Going to ask for a refund?"

I can't help the giggle that escapes me, and it feels so good to laugh. Pauline's smirking now. "Don't tempt me. Anyway, I'm not that far along, and I don't know how this is going to play out with work. We'll just have to wing it, I suppose."

Which goes against the grain. I didn't achieve my Dominion by ignoring the value of careful planning. But some things can't be helped.

She nods, and I answer the question she doesn't have to ask. "So far, I'm healthy."

Another nod, and I know that the casual eye she keeps on me is about to get a lot less casual. It's just something she does-she watches me because of my diabetes, and Frank because of his epilepsy, and Juanita because her HIV-positive status makes her more susceptible to ills even if she only works the cyber end of the business.

Sometimes I wonder why Pauline hasn't gone off and started her own business; she's a superlative majordomo, but she could be a great success as the mistress of her own Dominion. But I've never asked. She seems content to stay where she is, and I am deeply grateful to have her.

We sit for a moment, content in the quiet of friends, and I make a mental note to find us both some time for tea this week. Her schedule is even more hectic than mine. But duty calls and clients await, and we both push to our feet with sighs.

"I still have some things left over from when the girls were tiny," she offers, and I nod and thank her. The only thing I have left from Zoë's babyhood, other than mementos, is the family christening gown-generations of hopes and fragile old lace. But it's too soon to start stocking a nursery.

A nursery. Good heavens, where are we going to put the baby? Where are we going to put _ourselves?_ At the moment we have two houses, neither of which is really large enough for one infant, two set-in-their-ways adults, and a part-time young woman- I shake off the dizzying questions. As Jim said, we have about thirty weeks or so. There's time.

We go to work.

**xxxx**

**Jim**

There are times, tonight, when I think that the only thing stopping me from buying a box of cigars and passing them out is the explanations I'd have to give. I mean, Grissom and Nick know about Heather and me, and I'd bet a lot that Catherine's figured us out, and Sara knows I'm seeing someone, but as far as everybody else is concerned, ol' Jim Brass is still a confirmed bachelor.

That didn't bother me. Heather and I weren't really a secret, but we're both kind of private people, and somehow we just never got around to mentioning to folks that we were dating. Or whatever it is you call it when you're both way past adolescence.

But this is different. Call it male pride, call it whatever you like, but I keep having this urge to tell people that I'm going to have a kid. Maybe it's because this time I know it's mine-

Okay, ugly thought. Once I laid eyes on Ellie for the first time, her DNA didn't make any difference at all to me. She was my daughter, that was the end of it.

But this is-I can't help thinking, even though it makes me guilty-this baby's a new chance. Another chance to try to get it right, to avoid the mistakes I made with Ellie.

That's stupid. This kid isn't a rerun, and thank heaven, I'm not the man I was, nor is Heather anything like Karen.

I shuffle some more paper around on my desk. There's always more paperwork, and since I'm not currently chasing down any baddies, I have to deal with this stuff. Boring as hell, but it's part of the job.

And while I'm checking boxes and signing forms, the back of my mind is still wrestling with the issue. I mean, Human Resources doesn't care what the beneficiary name is on my insurance form, as long as I fill out all the blanks, but sooner or later I'm going to have to tell folks that I'm going to be a dad. Again.

And, by all that's holy, I'm looking forward to it.

It keeps coming back to me in little rushes through the night. When I'm called out to a murder in suburbia, it's there, reminding me to be more careful because there's somebody depending on me now. Not that I was careless before, but...

And it's _pushing. _Not something I really expected, but then I wasn't exactly expecting the news that I was going to have another kid, either. I told Heather that I already wanted to marry her, and it was the truth, but I'd been letting things proceed in their own sweet time, which was slow. This news, this baby so small yet that I'm going on scientific faith that it's there, is speeding it up.

Not that I really mind. I mean, Heather and I are both independent adults, used to spending the last chunks of our lives without a partner. But it was getting pretty lonely waking up alone every evening, especially when I knew that Heather was waking up by herself too, all warm skin and sleepy smile.

The murder's no mystery; abused wife snaps and takes out abusive husband with his own gun. I keep my cheers to myself and thank God that it's Catherine and Nick processing this one, not Sara. That girl still worries me sometimes.

The upshot is that I have a little time on my hands afterwards, so I take myself down to Human Resources. Fortunately for us nightwalkers, they have a smaller staff running the place at night, and it's actually easier because there's usually no wait.

The guy behind the desk is probably ten years younger than me, and skinny as a rail. He finds my file without any problems, and we settle into making changes in my health insurance, life insurance, my retirement plan...and then we hit a snag.

"Name." I stare blankly at the guy. "Uh...we don't have one yet."

"Sorry?" He blinks, focusing on me, looking about as confused as I suddenly feel.

"The baby's not born yet," I explain, a little heat rising in my face. "We don't even know if it's a boy or a girl."

I expect him to laugh, or to tell me to come back when I have a birth certificate and Social Security number, but instead he nods and starts typing. "Okay, that's fine; we'll put in 'Brass minor' as a placeholder, but you'll have to come back and fill in the data when your child's born."

I must be gaping a little, because he looks up from his screen and chuckles. "Believe it or not, Captain Brass, this is fairly common. When they designed the software, we asked specifically for this feature. We like to encourage responsibility." He sobers a little. "Way too many people don't bother planning for their own future, let alone their kids'."

I blow out a breath and sit back. I know what he means; I saw it all the time as a beat cop, elderly folks trying to scrape a living out of Social Security checks, little kids whose parents took 'em to the emergency room for anything because they didn't have health insurance. It's easy enough to think of this guy as just another bureaucrat, but it occurs to me that he probably thinks of himself as someone who tries to help people.

He types away for a few minutes, asking me questions about paycheck withholding and investments, and then looks up again. "Now that that's all squared away, Captain, are you aware of the state's college savings fund?"

I blink at him. College seems like eons away for this kid who's not even a bump in Heather's tummy yet, but I know just how fast time can melt away. But this reminds me of something I've been putting off dealing with-the fund I started all those years ago for Ellie's college expenses, the one that she never touched because she never went to college.

I need to talk to Heather before I make any more decisions. "Do you have a brochure or something?"

He laughs again and gives me three different ones, one with his card attached. "I'll be happy to discuss them with you any time. Just don't forget that you have to provide us with the name and Social Security number when you have it."

I thank him, take my copies of the forms, and get out, feeling a little dizzy. Ellie was the primary beneficiary of my insurance before, and Karen was the secondary, so I hadn't bothered to change them after Ellie's death. Now I wonder if Karen even remembers, and whether I should tell her.

And why.

My head hurts.

**xxxx**

**Heather**

I'm glad that I set up the crockpot last night before going to work, because Jim looks like the night has wrung him out. His face is all drawn as he sheds his jacket, and I lean up to give him a kiss and take it from him. Once in a while I don't mind playing the housewife role. "Hard night?"

"Not really." He shakes his head, then rolls it, and I can hear the pop of his vertebrae. "Just thinking."

"What about?" I hang the jacket in my front closet, watching him peel off his tie and loosen his cuffs.

"Lotsa things." He frowns, but thoughtfully. "Can I tell you later?"

"Of course." Something's troubling him, but that's one of the beauties of our relationship-it'll come out in its own time. We don't have to say everything at once. "Hungry?"

He smirks at me, turning my question into a double entendre. "Starving." And I'm enveloped in an embrace that's gentler than usual but still wonderfully warming, as his lips come down on my throat and he growls a little to make me smile.

I laugh, I can't help it, but after a minute I wiggle free. Decades spent monitoring my own blood sugar has taught me to recognize when it's low in someone else, and even though it's not a danger for Jim, I know it doesn't feel very good. "Dinner's just about ready, darling, why don't you go wash up?"

It's nothing special, just a good rich stew, but I stopped to get a loaf of new French bread, taking advantage of one of the perks of working nights-the bakeries are setting out their freshest goods just as I'm heading home. It's not quite as good as the stuff one can get in Paris-something to do with European flour-but it's the best in Vegas.

We sit, and eat. It does me good to watch Jim tucking into a second plate of beef and vegetables, to see the lines of strain in his face ease as his stomach fills. There's a certain primal satisfaction in feeding someone, no matter their age, and it's all the more satisfying when it's someone you care about.

We keep to light topics throughout dinner, both of us putting off any sensitive discussion until later. It's a sign to me of how close we've become, that we make this sort of decision without having to say anything.

Jim insists on doing the dishes, shooing me out of the kitchen, and I give in and

leave him to it. But I can't settle, and eventually I end up out on the deck, watching the backyard become slowly visible as the sun rises. I curl up on one of the chaise longues, seeking comfort. I don't know why I'm feeling nervous; I trust Jim and his love for me.

But old doubts are oozing up from the bottom of my mind. We were pretty content going on as we were; this baby, as much as I love it already, has put an entirely different spin on things. Jim's past fifty, and has recently lost his daughter; is he really prepared for another child, for starting all over again with an infant? Does he even remember how much time and energy a baby requires? Is he really willing to risk the heartbreak all over again?

He's still tired when he comes out to join me, but he looks a lot less stressed, rolling down his sleeves. I expect him to take the other longue, but instead he bends over, and in a show of the strength he so rarely displays, he scoops me up into his arms and then sits down with me in his lap. He sighs, arms tight around me, and finally speaks. "What's the matter, sweetheart?"

"I think I'm supposed to be asking that," I tell him, smiling a little even though I can't see his face; my head's tucked into the curve of his jaw and neck.

He snorts, the sound rumbling under my ear. "How much do you want to bet we're worrying about the same thing?"

I laugh, but it fades quickly. "Jim..."

"Give, already." There's humor in his voice, but it's also firm, and I sigh. There's no point in hiding my doubts, and I won't weaken our relationship by trying to keep my fears from him.

"Are you sure you want to go ahead with this?" I ask softly. "It's all happening so fast. If you need more time to think about things..."

The chuckle surprises me a little. "I figured this was what was bugging you," he says. "Heather, yes, this is moving fast. But I told you I've wanted to marry you for a long time now. This baby is just one more reason."

He hugs me closer, his voice going serious. "Besides, it's more practical. Heather, what if something happens to you? Heaven forbid, but if it does I want to-I need to have some kind of legal status in the tadpole's life."

I hadn't quite looked at it that way. And the knot just under my breastbone starts to loosen. Jim is one of the most responsible men I know, but the urgency running under his voice isn't mere responsibility.

It's need.

**Jim**

I didn't mean to push this right now. But all of a sudden the conversation's got a lot more serious than I meant it to get, and I can feel the tension in my shoulders even though I'm trying to keep my arms loose.

I hope she understands. I keep my voice light. "You know they'll only let me into the maternity ward with you if I'm your husband-and you gotta have someone to cuss at."

Her shoulders start to shake, and I realize she's laughing. "All right, Jim, all right! You win. We'll get married before the baby arrives."

"Good." Relief makes me feel a little lightheaded. "Good."

Leaving one arm around her, I feel in my pocket for the item I picked up a few nights ago. I keep a safe deposit box at the Half Moon Casino-much easier than a bank for my hours-and the little box has been waiting a long time. I pull out the contents and put my arm back around Heather.

"When I asked Karen to marry me, we went shopping for a ring the next day," I tell her, the ache now gone from the memory. "She wanted something shiny and new. But this wouldn't have been right for her anyway."

I hold out my fist in front of Heather, and open it. "It was my mother's," I say.

It's nothing spectacular; just a simple gold band, with a diamond in a classic cut. But it's elegant and timeless, and I knew it was right for Heather the first moment it occurred to me that I wanted to marry her.

She sucks in a breath, and reaches out to touch it with one long finger. "Jim, it's beautiful."

It occurs to me, a little late, that it might not be what she wants, though. "If you'd rather have something else-"

"No." Her voice is firm. "No, darling, I'd be honored to wear it."

So with that, I pick up her left hand and slide the band on. It's a little big, but getting it resized will be no problem. For a long moment I look over her shoulder at her slender hand in my square one, and again I get this entirely blissful feeling of everything being _right._ "I love you," I tell her, because I do.

She turns in my arms, and I can see the tears in her eyes, but I'm old and wise enough now not to worry about them. Her hands go up around my face, and I can feel the band pressing against my right cheek. "I love you, James Thomas Brass," she says sternly, and I kiss her.

It seems the thing to do.

It's much later that I wake up, surfacing in the warmth of Heather's bedroom, feeling her head resting on my chest and my own muscles aching a little. Making the promise formal seemed to set something off in both of us, and I tried to be gentle at first, but Heather ran out of patience somewhere along the line and explained that her body was perfectly capable of protecting the tadpole, thank you very much, and I could quit holding back now.

I never argue with a lady. At least, not under those circumstances.

Her hair's all over my chest, and she's got one arm wrapped around me and one leg between mine, and I feel thoroughly owned. Suits me just fine, by the way. Her other arm's pulled up to her chest, but I can see the ring sparkling a little there in the muted light.

There's still a million things to discuss and decide, but they're not so urgent at the moment. Whatever happens, we're together. The three of us.

That's the important part.


	3. 3

**Zoë**

I have big news, and I debating on how to share it with my mother. It's good news, and normally I'd just rush to call her, just to hear her warm enthusiasm, but while it's exciting, the aftermath of it is going to be a little harder on the both of us. One more sign that I'm growing up, and developing a life of my own, I guess.

I've gotten an internship with the Massachusetts Mental Health Center. I'm only one of a handful of students who were even considered for it, and I didn't want to get my hopes up after I applied, so I didn't tell mom, or dad. I mean, really, it was such a long shot. My grades were good, and the interview was wonderful, but there were other great contenders, so I just sort of filed it away while I plugged along this semester, trying to get statistics down. So when I got the acceptance letter two days ago I just sort of blinked and swallowed hard and ended up dancing around my dorm room. When my roommate Gisele came in, she caught me jumping on my bed, of all things, and cracked up.

She knows I only do that when I'm really REALLY hyped.

Anyway, it will mean moving out into my own apartment, which is really a big deal for me. The Harvard community is a cozy one, and because everybody knows somebody, there's always an apartment you can get—but this will be my first one on my own. Mom will worry and fuss, and want to come out to look it over with me. Heck, Jim will probably want to come too—he's twice as bad as she is about nagging me on safety issues—but it will be fun. I can see it nowMom will help me decorate, and Jim will get me about four massive locks for the front door, and then run security checks on all my neighbors, snort.

Not that I'll mind all that much. He's grown on me, and we've come to a pretty comfortable place now. Both of us care about Mom, that's clear, and Jim Brass is good for her. I can see the difference in the way she smiles, and acts. Secretly, while I miss it just being her and me, I also feel this relief too, that she's not alone anymore. My mom's strong, don't get me wrong; she kicks ass every night, literally and metaphorically, but I feel better knowing she's got someone to come home to who loves her. And Jim loves her, that's for damn sure.

So Mom's set, and now it's my turn to make a few major changes in my life. When I move out, all that hard work she did in helping me establish credit, and organize bills and run my finances will really go to work. I'll be living on my own for the first time. I reach for my cell phone and check my watch—just about eight in the morning her time, she's probably still up, getting ready for bed . . .

The phone rings as I touch it, and I jump a little, spooked but grinning. Nerves. I pick it up, and I can tell by the static that it's Mom, even before she says anything. That REALLY gives me the nervous giggles, and I start, even as she murmurs, "Zoë my darling, is that you?"

"Oh yeah, hi! You know this is SO amazing. I was just going to call you. I mean really RIGHT the second the phone rang I was about to pick it up." I burble happily. I hear her laugh, soft and sweet, like a verbal hug. No matter how big I get, I'll always feel little and safe hearing that laugh. I settle down on the sofa and cradle the phone to my ear.

"Well, my Zoë, I called because I have some important news," she says. I tense up, even though her voice is still soft and relaxed. I can't help it though—after living with her diabetes for so long, I'm always on the alert, and a phrase like 'important news' could go either way as far as I'm concerned. She could be going on an insulin pump, which would be good, or she could be getting a leg removed which would be bad—before I can even draw a breath, she adds, "Good news, I feel, but a bit . . . startling. Are you sitting down?"

"Mom!" I mutter, rolling my eyes and making sure she hears that in my tone. Again, she chuckles, and this time I can sense something like pride, and even embarrassment in her voice as she clears her throat and rolls out, "I'm going to have a baby, Zoë."

I blink. I grip the phone a little more tightly as my mind goes into hyper drive. Like, Star Trek Warp Ten, practically. "A baby? You and Jim are adopting a baby? Mom, you guys aren't even MARRIED! Don't get me wrong, I'm not judging here, but to just out of the blue adopt—"

"—Zoë, no. I'm pregnant, my darling."

Dead silence. I can feel my heartbeat; HEAR my breathing which is REALLY noisy right now. Boy my hands are cold.

"Mom? Uhhhh . . . "

"I know, I know. We BOTH know. But within this last year one of my fallopian tubes managed to reconnect. Doctor Phal tells me that it only happens to an astronomically tiny percentage of women, but it does happen. And of course, once that occurred—"

God, I can HEAR her blush. Mom and I both have that fair Hungarian complexion that goes brick red, and even here, thousands of miles from her I can hear the bloom of scarlet on her face.

"—You and Jim got busier than you thought you would—" I blurt. Not tactful, but I'm still sort of lost in the galaxy on this one. A baby. Oooooohhhhh man. Baby. Like in, another stepbrother or sister, in diapers. With spit-up. I can deal with the ones I have on Dad's side—they're all over the age of eight now, but a BABY

"That's one way of putting, it, yes. Believe me Zoë dearest, this is NOT an easy thing for me. Never in my life did I expect to be . . . expecting again." There's a little bit of fear in her tone now, and I feel a rush of shame at my cavalier attitude as I suck in a breath.

"Oh, mom, yeah, but this is so—incredible." Yeah. That fits. Incredible for sure. This blows MY news out of the water, but it's only fair. I laugh a little. "I love you mom, this is GREAT news. Wonderful!"

"Thank you. It's good that you feel that way, especially since this is so—surprising."

I glance at the calendar on the wall. "So, when's our Brass link due? Are you throwing up yet? Does Grandma know?"

"Zoë!" I hear her laugh and catch her breath. Man, I wish I was there to put my arms around her, because even though she's the grown up, I know she has to be a little scared.

"I'm only a little over two months along, darling, and yes, I've had a bit of morning sickness. Nothing major thank goodness. And as for Mama—" I hear her sigh, and grin like a lunatic. Man oh man is Jim in for a time there—my Grandmother is fierce. She actually made people at Social Security cry. All the clerks at her local supermarket are terrified of her, and always give her double discount on her coupons just to move her on through the line rather than argue with her. She's little and withered, but she's got game, my Grandma has. She takes no prisoners and no guff.

"He'll charm her, mom. They DO have one thing in common besides you, you know."

Ah, the old family secret. This one's going to work in our favor.

I hear her quick intake of breath, and a soft purring sigh. "You're right. I was sort of hoping to use that as a last resort, but given the circumstances, I may have to play that ace."

"Man—a baby. Whoa. This is going to really shift your paradigms too mom—are you two going to co-habitate, or make this a legally recognized joint effort?" I'm curious now, because despite all my mother's talk of being strong and independent, she's got a serious romantic streak where Jim's concerned. I know she adores him.

"As a matter of fact, he proposed, and I accepted."

"Mom! You should have started with that and led INTO the baby thing!" I guffaw, feeling both elation and a pang of envy at her happy tone. I'm not jealous of her or Jim—just of what they have sometimes. I know I'll find someone myself someday, but still, can't help feeling a twinge every now and then. Her laugh bubbles up, warm and relaxed.

"I've had other proposals, Zoë, that's not new. The baby however, seriously trumps the ring."

"Yes, I can see that. So—what's it look like?"

She describes the ring in such loving detail I'm giggling again. My mom has it BAD, and I don't think she even realizes it.

A baby.

Wow. It's only after we hang up, amid kisses and 'I love yous' that I realize I never got a chance to tell Mom MY news, darn it.

**Jim**

I'm hunting houses. One of the odd benefits of my job is learning the city and her suburbs—it doesn't look good when cops get lost—so I know Las Vegas pretty well after these last few years. I know to avoid the north end of the Strip; that the better schools are on the east side, and that anything south of the airport is part of a flood plain. I've seen the mansions and the trailer parks, the vast tract housing and the ball fields. And in the back of my thoughts, I've kept a few places in mind.

Like here. Serenity Lane. It's a little side street that dead ends near a stand of Eucalyptus trees on the high side of a creek. There are three houses here, all two story numbers done in Spanish southwest style: tiled roofs, white stucco adobe design, little half-walled courtyards in the front. I'm looking at the endmost one, which is a little desolate at the moment. I've been here a few times; the For Sale sign's been hanging here a while, and the yard needs some work, but I see a lot of plusses to this place. The stand of trees is to the north, so their shade is going to be nice blocking the summer sun most of the day. Since the lane is a dead end, traffic will be minimal.

The neighbors? I see an unhitched Peterbilt at the curb of one place, so at least one of them is probably a long distance trucker. In the driveway of the other house is a Volvo with a Desert Palms Staff parking permit dangling from the rearview mirror. So a trucker and a doctor or nurse close by—nice.

On impulse I pull out my cell phone and hit speed dial, getting a familiar voice on the other end.

"Did I wake you?"

"No darling—I was just heading out to pick up my dry cleaning."

I give her the address, adding "if it's not out of your way."

That's the kicker of course—Heather has a strong sense of curiosity, and she knows perfectly well that I wouldn't call and mention a place unless it fit a lot of our criteria. A car pulls up; not the Miata, but a Taurus, and a lean woman in a pantsuit climbs out: Dottie West, realtor. She shakes my hand firmly and produces a ring of house keys, her words an ongoing stream of consciousness that I'm letting flow over me like water on a cascade.

"—Really a beauty, but you know how the market is sometimes. This place has several outstanding features I know you and the missus are going to love, and of course the asking price has dropped a bit because the bank is anxious to move it—"

"I'd like to wait for my fiancée to get here," tell her, and my chest feels like it's filled with helium. Fiancée, yeah. Soon to be my bride, then my wife and mother to our Tadpole . . . it's STILL giving me that quiet inner charge. The realtor, bless her, doesn't miss a beat, and smiles broadly, taking one of my hands in her two, shaking it hard.

"Oh congratulations! You couldn't pick a nicer commitment than a house—unless you count the getting married part of course. And there are so many rooms to decorate together—I can show you the yard if you like—"

I like, so we walk in the little enclosed courtyard and I glance at the grass with a knowing eye—this lawn looks as if I might be able to keep it subdued. There's a seat built into part of one of the brick half-walls, and a few flowerbeds. The side of the house is a walkway with a good gate, and the backyard . . . oh I have plans for that.

It's big, sort of octagon shaped and fenced in by more half-wall half black Spanish fencing. Since this is the house that stands alone on Serenity Lane, we've got an empty lot on one side of us, and the stand of trees on the other. Lots of room for a swing set, and a brick barbeque, and should we decide to splurge, maybe a spa. There's crabgrass back here, but that's an old enemy I'm capable of dealing with when the time comes. Dottie is pointing out various features that I only half-hear about as I do my own inspection over the windows and doors.

Locks, definitely. And maybe a security system. The cop in me is looking for the security, and I like most of what I see. Double sash windows, screens . . . I'm so caught up in my musings that I don't feel the hand on my shoulder at first, but when I turn, it's Heather. She's in a beige scoop neck top and denim skirt, with sandals that show off her rose toenail polish, and another warm pang hits my stomach as I see the ring on her hand, hanging a little, but there. She leans forward and kisses my cheek, gracefully and I slip an arm around her, feeling fine.

"And this must bet the lucky woman! Hi, I'm Dottie West of Saguaro Realty." Dottie chirps up. Heather's gracious and shakes hands, smiling in the face of the woman's ongoing monolog. I clear my throat and Dottie nods, leading us back around to the front of the house. With that weird little ceremonial wave that I've seen almost every realtor do when showing a property, she unlocks the front door and herds us inside.

Nice. The front foyer faces the stairs. Off to the left, the living room. To the right, a dining room. I walk along the side of the stairs and see a sort of family room and the kitchen's just beyond it. One downstairs bathroom, but both Heather and I are drawn to the kitchen. Seems only natural for the two of us, right? It's big and airy, and the first thing that catches my eye is an oven built into the brick wall. A baker's oven; the real deal with temperature gauge and glass door. Heather gives a little gasp and I shoot her a smile. Behind us comes the ongoing commentary.

" . . . and he used to be the head baker for the Sands, and later for La Scala Malibu in the Forum, so naturally the kitchen's pretty upscale. Freestanding island with double sinks, a gas range, a baker's oven, a built-in knife rack, dishwasher, ex-TEN-sive cupboards . . ." Dottie warbles. From the look on Heather's face, the place is as good as sold, but I take her hand warningly and arch an eyebrow. She returns the look of perfect understanding and wanders over to the window that overlooks the back yard. It's a minature bay window with space for plants.

"Do you cook, Ms Marazek?" Dottie winds down a little, finally realizing how quiet we both are. Heather shoots her a quick smile, nodding, and I notice her hands sliding hungrily on the stone countertop. Oh she's got it bad for this kitchen, and frankly I can't blame her because it's starting to work its magic on me too. It's big, airy, but with enough room for two people to move around it comfortably.

Reluctantly we leave the kitchen and finish exploring the downstairs rooms. They're nice. It's always hard to tell how a place will look with your own furniture in it, but all in all it's . . . nice. We tramp upstairs, Dottie going on now about closet space, and once we hit the landing up there, I feel Heather's hand slip into mine and squeeze. I squeeze back.

**Heather**

The house is—beautiful. Oh there are things I'll have to change but minor ones and as I'm making plans it dawns on me that I had no idea, none, that I was so ready for this. It's frightening me at the same time I'm delighting in it, this nesting syndrome running through my system. Jim is so quiet it's a little unnerving, but maybe that's only because Ms West is quite the chatterbox by comparison She means well, and I can see that this sale is important to her, so I just keep nodding.

The kitchen! Ohh what fun I could have—WE could have there! Room and light and all those cooking perks set up to warm a chef's heart. I could sense Jim's sympathetic vibe, and it took all I had not to giggle at his poker face. Clearly he's not going to wax enthusiastic with the realtor around and I understand the ploy. At the top of the stairs, I take his hand and squeeze; his soft smile makes me happy.

Three medium bedrooms and one Master—ooh be still my beating heart! I inspect the walk-in closets in all of them, easily seeing the one closest to the master as a nursery, with its big windows and airy charm. There are things to change, of course—I'm not excited about the colors of this room, and one of the other bedrooms has some truly hideous wallpaper. I'm sure Jim will have something to say about the security, or lack of, but all in all, I have the feeling that deep down this house will more than do for our combined lives.

When I step into the Master bedroom, Jim is looking out the window that faces the road. I slip my arms around him from behind and nuzzle his shoulder; he half-turns and his whisper is just between us.

"So?"

"So I'm very impressed with your choice, my darling. There are a few things that need some changes, but nothing we couldn't do ourselves," I offer back. He gives that little two-shouldered shrug I know so well. I follow his glance out the window; the street is quiet and I can hear the sound of the creek through the faint rustle of the Eucalyptus trees at the side of the house.

"So this is the one, just like that? You don't need to see a bunch of others? I know there are some developments over by the university, probably have better elementary schools—" Jim teases. I turn to look at his profile, seeing the little smirk on it.

"The things I will do to you, James Thomas Brass, once we have a bed in this room" I purr. The smirk widens for a moment.

"Tell me more," he lightly insists, gaze shooting my way, but at that moment Dottie comes bustling in, bright-eyed and eager.

"So, what are your feelings here, folks? Because if this one's not right, I have a lovely little ranchhouse number out near Henderson that might—"

He gives me a quick glance, clears his throat softly, and the negotiations begin in earnest.

I'm calling my mother. This is a difficult call at any time, but it's not being helped by the fact that Jim is playing with my bare feet. I have them resting in his lap, and he's pretending to read over some of the paperwork Dottie foisted on us. Things are complicated I suppose, since Jim and I each want to sell our houses, but after much discussion it boils down to a timeline. Jim will move in here and we'll sell his house first, then we'll buy the one on Serenity Lane and move in there, and eventually sell this one. It sounds easy, but I'm aware that the logistics will be tricky at times, and of course, somewhere in that timeline will be our wedding.

Wedding . . . it still startles me a little, how that thought sends a happy wriggle through my spine. I'm determined to keep things low-key; after all, we've both been married before, and had the fancier affairs with all the trimmings. Somewhere in my attic I have my album still, with pictures that make me laugh even as I feel a pang or two looking at them. I was so pale and stilted; Glen looked overly jolly, showing lots of teeth in every shot.

I dial my mother's number from memory, hearing the distant rings that are echoing somewhere near Lake Tahoe. By the third one she answers.

"Servusz?" comes her voice. I clear my throat.

"Servusz, Mama, it's me."

"Of course it's you, sillybird. Who else on the planet calls me Mama, eh?" she's chuckling, so it must be a good day. No bad arthritis, she probably won at Mah Jong. I feel Jim's fingers stroking the top of my feet, and it tickles, so I shoot him a stern look that does no good at all; he shoots me a bland look back and keeps stroking.

"Mama, I have someone I want you to meet," I say into the phone. She pauses on the other end, and in the background I can hear the drone of CNN. Then she draws in a breath.

"Oh Hajana, I hear it in your voice. This is the one Zoe has been hinting about isn't it? The bear man."

I blink, as bizarrely, I thought I heard my mother say BARE man, and fight a giggle. Knowing her she probably she meant both meanings, so I take the easier distraction. "What else did Zoe say?"

"A lot," my mother smugly announces, which means my daughter has told her as little as possible. This is difficult because my mother has interrogation down to a fine art. The CIA could take lessons, and poor Jim will have to use all his charm and wit against her. I sigh.

"Like what, Mama?"

"Like you are happy and very close to him and it's been going on a while. I don't want to spoil your happiness, so why don't you tell me all the other things I already know, eh?" she coaxes. Jim is now cupping the soles of my feet in his big hands, warm and soft; the pleasure is shooting up my legs and he KNOWS it, the fiend. I squirm a little.

"His name is Jim Brass and he's a police captain here in Las Vegas."

"Police! Hajana my goosey, does he know what you do for a living? God forbid, did he ARREST you?" my mother scolds, her voice getting a little growly at the thought. If she thinks Jim is a bear, she should look in the mirror. I give my foot caresser a long-suffering glance and he brings one up to his lips and kisses it—oh good lord my spine is melting at the touch of his warm mouth. I struggle very hard to keep from moaning with the pleasure of it all.

"He—he knows, Mama. It's not a secret."

"It's not a proper living for a girl like you either. Men at your feet, Pah!"

Ohh my mother's inadvertent timing . . . Jim is softly kissing the ticklish joints each of my rose-painted toenails and I'm feeling the coil of erotic tension right where he wants me to. I bite my lips for a moment and clear my throat.

"Mama, let's not argue about this again, please. He's very, VERY important to me and I'd like you to meet him. When can we come see you?"

"Oh anytime, anytime. They changed my schedule at the hospital to mornings now, so I'm home from the nursery by noon. This weekend would be fine. Does he like goulash?"

"Uhhh . . . " This isn't because I don't know the answer, although I don't—it's because Jim is now nibbling on my ankle and my brain is mushing down under his tender onslaught. If he moves any higher up the inside of my leg I may strangle him with the cord of the phone. Ineffectively I swat at him, but he shoots me another one of his mild yet ruthless looks and shifts closer.

"Not much of a gourmet then, eh? Too bad. You need a man who appreciates good cooking, Hajana. THAT'S the secret to a happy home. Ah well—so next weekend is good, yes? And I'll make my goulash and hideg zamocaleves if you think so highly of this Captain of yours. What is Brass anyway, English?"

"He's American like you— like US, mama, by way of Irelaaaaaand!" I yelp as the sneaky weasel I adore lifts my leg higher and licks the back of my knee. I'm completely torn between clanging James Thomas Brass over the head with the receiver in my hand or just hanging up on my mother and tackling him. He arches an eyebrow, daring me in that wordless little taunt. I growl a little.

"Irelaaaaaaaand? Is this some new, mythical place, my dove?" My mother asks slowly, clearly questioning my sanity. I'm doing that myself as I reach my free hand down to Jim's cloth-covered thigh and slid my fingers around the muscled curve of it, finding heat and hardness. Jim tries to look nonchalant, but he swallows a little at my stroke.

"Ha. The goose says 'Take THAT, Gander!" I mouth at him before turning my attention back to my mother. "Sorry, no, Mama, I just ran into something hard. Next weekend should be fine for us—we'll drive."

Four hours up should be sufficient time to fully prep my darling, and the four hours back can be spent helping him recover. In the meantime—I lean forward and shift my palm until it even with splayed fingers, it barely covers the bulging masculine enthusiasm of Jim Brass. The look on his face is priceless at this moment; half playful lust, half perplexed hesitation. I let a smoldering smile drift across my face and listen to my mother agree to the dinner, then hang up after kisses and goodbyes. Jim watches me hang up the phone with my free hand.

"So, I finally get to meet your mom," he tries act as if it's no big deal. I let my hand shift and unzip his fly as I slide myself over onto his lap. The mortgage papers flutter everywhere as I finally make the move I've been holding back on for the last eight minutes. Jim seems as anxious as I am—so much for drawing out the foreplay tonight.

Surely, slowly he peels my top off and manages to unhook my bra while I nibble on his neck, savoring the warm scent of his clean skin. Jim tastes very good. Maybe my senses are heightened by his teasing, or the pregnancy, but whatever it is, I'm definitely in the mood, so I shift up on my knees and slip out of my damp panties, earning a slightly surprised yet approving look from my darling.

"Need you," I explain, lifting my denim skirt so that Jim has a nice view of my naked hips and thighs. He swallows a little again, gaze both hot and tender. Carefully he lifts his own hips to work his way free of his pants and I laugh against his slightly scratchy cheek, pulling him over onto me in a happy tangle of half-dressed urgency while he tries desperately not to put his weight on me.

"Heather, hon—I don't want to flatten you—"

"Pffft! You couldn't if you tried. I happen to be very well upholstered, " I tell him while licking his ear. My hands are very busy stroking, and I part my thighs as I guide him. Jim grips the sofa arm above my head and looks down into my eyes as he thrusts. Ohhh the glorious surge of that first push! I groan, hearing a lower version coming from Jim's throat as he pulls back and rocks forward again, settling into a deeply satisfying rhythm into me. I hike my denim skirt higher, sliding my legs around him, clinging to him joyfully.

It's lovely. Jim knows just how to bury himself in me, how to kiss me while we're making love so that my desire for him flares out of control and I'm half out of my mind with the pleasure. I can feel myself building quickly now, the hot tension just on the edge of exploding when he drops his mouth onto mine, his low possessive growl pushing my lips open, our tongues sliding over each other in a wild shameless kiss. I moan helplessly as I clench tight around his shaft, feeling it pulse within me heavily.

This is us. The most basic level of our lives is this beautiful primitive connection of Jim the man and Heather the woman, and I bask in the warm sweaty afterglow, stroking his back, whispering my appreciation and love as he lays on me, replete and happy. Knowing that deep within my womb I carry his child thrills me, and I close my eyes, perfectly willing to sleep now.

So we do.


	4. 4

**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and we do not have permission to borrow them. All the others belong to us, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask us first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. **

**Spoilers: "Slaves of Las Vegas" and "Lady Heather's Box" **

**Sorry for the delay!**

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

**Brass**

It's a pretty routine robbery, one more convenience-store holdup, with the sad exception that the owner didn't make it - which is why I'm here. Just what I needed at the end of shift. Not a good night.

Worse for the dead guy, though.

Phillips has just zipped him up and carted him off, leaving nothing but a blood pool, and Warrick's sauntering around collecting prints and whatnot. I'm done interviewing witnesses, not that there were many, and I head out to take off, just in time to find the uniform on his cell, hopping up and down like a kid who's gotta pee. I wait until he snaps the phone shut. "What is it, Hendricks?"

"Mom…hospital…heart…" he babbles, and I wave at him.

"Go, go. I'll stay with the scene." He takes off, and I shout after him. "Don't forget to call it in!"

The cruiser door slams and he peels out, and I sigh and make the call myself, 'cause I don't think he's gonna remember. Not that I blame him. It makes my night longer, but it's never a hardship to hang out with 'Rick for a while. Funny, how far we've come. There was a time…

But I don't really like to remember that. So I kill the thought and go back inside. I seriously doubt that the perps're going to come back for the two tens they dropped in clearing out the register, but I swore to Officer Gribbs that there was never going to be another dead CSI on my watch.

I pretend I don't know that much about forensics, but I do; supervising the shift taught me a lot, and I can even do a basic collection if I have to, except the paperwork's a bitch, so I don't. I lean against the counter - yes, I checked to make sure he'd already processed it - and watch. Grissom and Sara are kinda the epitome of collecting; it's a little spooky to see them interact without saying anything. But Warrick's an artist in his own right, and if he's cocky he has a right to be.

Not that I'd tell him that, of course.

He drifts around the place; the perps weren't just interested in money, they were making a grocery run too. Beer, cheap bourbon, chips, and - believe it or not - condoms. So 'Rick gets to dust the rack as well, and it's just as well Catherine's not here, or the innuendo would be flying thick and fast. Sometimes I think _those _two oughta be locked in a closet.

He's shaking his head, and I get curious, so I amble over to have a look. "What's up?"

"Man, these guys were fools. They swiped the cheapo stuff."

I look around his shoulder at the empty hanger. "Maybe they didn't have time to pay attention." The tag on the hanger is for a brand imported from Mexico. "What's wrong with those anyway?"

Warrick snorts and dips his brush in powder. "What's wrong with them? No quality control, that's what. I wouldn't trust those things to hold water."

It occurs to me that given the current situation, I'm going to have to reacquaint myself with the market pretty soon. It wasn't that I'm totally out-of-date, you understand, but before Heather it had been something of a dry spell.

"What about those?" I point to a brand I've used before, more out of curiosity about what he'll say.

Warrick snorts. "Not much better."

"And you're such an expert." I can't help teasing him a little, but he only snorts again.

"Hey, I'm no playah, but I got brought up right." He glances over at me, smirking a little. "What about you, Captain? Practicing safe sex?"

I put on my best superior look. "For longer than you've been alive. And those aren't bad."

"Oh yeah? Tell that to your lady the next time one breaks on you. What's she gonna do to you when she ends up pregnant?"

I'll never get a better straight line than that, not if I wait all day. "Actually, she was pretty pleased." Once she calmed down, anyway.

Warrick's face is a picture. First he blinks, trying to make sure he heard right, and then his eyes narrow. He's the only one at the lab who knows the story behind Ellie's parentage, so he knows I'm not talking about her. "You're joking, right?"

"Nope." This smugness is new - put it down to primitive male satisfaction, I guess. Displaying one's prowess.

Warrick shakes his head, a slow grin spreading over his face. "Daaaamn." He sticks out one hand, then pulls it back as he remembers he's gloved. "Congratulations, Jim. Huh, I owe Nick a twenty."

My brows go up at that. "Oh?"

Warrick shrugs. "He swore that you were serious about Lady Heather, and I gotta admit I didn't believe him."

I should have known. Stokes is a little old lady gossip in a power hitter's body. "Sheesh. Who else knows?"

"Nobody - at least not from us." He's still grinning. "And you're going to be a daddy again!" His smile slips a little; I might not talk about it, but Ellie's death is no secret.

But I grin back. That wound won't ever heal completely, but nobody has to tiptoe around it. "Yep. Come September, there'll be another Brass in the world."

Warrick purses his lips. "You two got _married?_"

"Well, no." Dammit, why are my ears heating? "Not yet."

I know that look. Doesn't matter that 'Rick's under thirty-five and more than a foot taller, he's got exactly the same expression as my mother would have - sort of disappointment mixed with demand. I sigh. "Relax. Before the baby's due."

"Well, all right then." And we're both laughing now, maybe because the whole thing's a little silly, maybe because it's true anyway.

**Heather**

We've found the place we want; the next step is to sell Jim's house. It seems a little fast, but babies wait for no one; we've placed a claim on our magnificent kitchen and all that comes with it, and intend to move in before the tadpole emerges. Not that we couldn't live together in my place, but moving would be much more difficult afterwards, and we'd be cramped as well - for of course Zoë will be here for the birth.

So - preparations. Jim has kept his place in good condition; my love is a bit of a handyman when he has time, so there's not that much to do to spruce it up. A little paint here, a little repair there. The main task is packing.

And, as I stand in his kitchen basting a couple of Cornish hens, I detect a distinct lack of sound coming from the rest of the house, and I know he's run into another snag.

It's surprisingly hard for Jim, this move. He claims he's not very attached to the house, and I think that's true, but it's also the last place he spent any happy times with his daughter. Every so often he'll lose track of what he's putting into boxes, and I'll find him staring into space, looking…lost. It always tears my heart a little.

I sigh, and close the oven door, brushing the hair from my eyes. The coming months will bring so many challenges - not just my pregnancy, but also our moving in together. We're both strong, independent people, who haven't shared our lives or space with partners in many years. There's bound to be friction.

Setting down the baster, I wipe my hands on a towel and go find Jim. He's up in his attic space, smeared with dust and looking pensive and adorable; right now he's sitting on an old low stool and staring at a very battered…something. A piece of clothing of some type? I step over the creaky boards and crouch down next to him. "What on earth _is_ that, darling?"

He blinks, and smiles at me. "Hocky pad," he says cheerfully, and tosses it with deadly accuracy into an open garbage bag. "Lots of memories attached, but I'm not keeping it."

I put a hand on his knee; his tendency to get rid of things with little or no thought alarms me slightly. "Why not? You still get out on the ice occasionally."

He picks up my hand and kisses it. "Heather, I love you. That pad dates back to when I was twelve. I don't think it'll fit any more."

Oh. I can feel my cheeks pinkening, but I grin back. "Fair enough. Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes."

He nods. "Have you checked your blood sugar?"

I rein in my annoyance and indulge in the love instead. "Yes, I did. Five minutes ago."

Jim nods. "Good," he says firmly. He's unrelenting on this, and underneath my independence, I agree. Dr. Phal referred me to an obstetrician who specializes in diabetic pregnancies, and she was most clear. Expectant diabetics must check their blood glucose frequently, four times per day or more, for both their health and that of their babies. And while Jim's reminders can be a little irritating, they stem from love, and his care warms me.

He even learned how to give me an emergency injection, just in case. I haven't had an incident in years, but one never knows, and almost as soon as we had the news of my pregnancy, he was calling on my promise to show him how I inject myself. I wasn't sure what to expect - Glen could do it, but he always turned a little green - but Jim didn't even flinch.

Between him and Pauline, I'm well-protected.

I stand up again and lean over to kiss the top of his head before going back downstairs to make the salad, passing boxes stacked neatly in the living room. About half of Jim's things will go into storage until the new house is ready; fortunately, there's plenty of storage space at the Dominion, so we won't have to pay for it. We aren't pinching pennies by any means, but our financial needs have changed, and we're being careful.

Dinner is good, of course - I don't think we've ever actually had a _bad _meal, except for the one when we were fighting, and even then the food was fine. Jim washed up well, but his shirt has a few streaks of dust, and his eyes look tired.

The sun's up by the time we're done. "I'm going to move into the living room again," Jim tells me as he puts plates into the sink. "It'll be too hot upstairs."

"Sounds good. I'll do the dishes, my darling. You make the coffee and go get started."

He nods, brushes a kiss along the back of my neck, and obeys. I scrub silverware and sniff the warm coffee smell, listening to the rustle of newspaper and the rip of packing tape from the living room. Jim still hasn't replaced his battered dishwasher; I think he should, to increase the salability of his house, but he doesn't want to spend the money, and it's his house.

When I'm finished, I fill a couple of mugs and head out to the living room. Jim's sitting on the floor surrounded by knickknacks and lamps, and he grins when I hand him the coffee, running an appreciative hand up my leg - a warm, gentle caress. "Thanks, sweetheart."

I sit down on the couch behind him, setting my mug on the little side table now denuded of its lamp. "Never knew you had so much stuff, hmm?" I tease, and he sighs.

"You're so right. It doesn't look like much when it's on the shelves, but…"

That makes me laugh, and I bend over and heft one of the fat dusty albums he's stacked up for packing as he reaches for another sheet of newspaper. I should help him, but I'm...curious.

The album's older than I expected, the plastic on the pages crackly and brownish around the edges, but I scarcely notice. It's not as old as the photos, and I've never seen these before. A tiny form in an old-fashioned hospital bassinet, a knitted cap topping the small wrinkled face; a woman in the careful hairstyle of the past century holding the same little bundle, beaming at the camera; clenched fists and wide eyes dark with wonder. "Jim, you were a gorgeous baby!"

"What?" His head comes up, startled, and then he sees what I'm looking at. "Oh, geez, Heather, not those."

"Too late." I wrinkle my nose at him and hold the album out of reach when he makes a snatch for it. "Your secret's out!"

For a second I think he's going to really try to get it away from me, but then he sighs. "I guess it had to happen eventually."

"I'll show you mine when we pack up MY attic," I coax, and he snorts and pushes up onto the sofa beside me.

"You'd better. Which one have you got there?"

"The first one, I presume."

I turn pages. It's fascinating, a long slow look at my husband-to-be's past, amateurish black and white photos salted with a handful of careful studio shots and school portraits. I see Jim as a dark-haired infant, a strong-looking toddler tearing open gifts at Christmas, a gap-toothed child with a toy truck or a bike and a determined look. Jim tries to hurry me from time to time, but I hold the pages firmly down and look my fill, absorbing. It's mostly him alone, or with other children at a birthday party or some other event; occasionally there is a broad-shouldered man that must be his father, or the small, pretty, tired-looking woman that is his mother.

Jim makes the occasional comment from time to time, naming one of his playfellows or the date of a given Christmas. The wistful pleasure in his voice at the sight of the cowboy outfit - hat, vest, boots, and cap guns - gives me a little more insight into why he eventually chose history as his major in college.

We go through three dusty albums, laying them open on our laps as we sit hip to hip, Jim's arm behind my shoulders. The third one ends with Jim's high school graduation portrait, and I have to smile at the long-haired, snub-nosed young man who is trying so hard to look casual and unconcerned.

"Ah, my hirsute days," Jim says, running a hand over his short-cropped scalp. "Should have known it wouldn't last."

"The severe look suits you," I tell him, and tweak his nose ever so gently.

**Brass**

I let myself into Heather's place - well, Heather's and mine - kind of - whew. I let myself in, and put my coat away, and go looking for her. I'm a little late this morning, but I bear good news.

"Heather?" I call, but not too loud in case she's napping. That's one thing I do remember - pregnant ladies need more rest.

But she's not in her bedroom, or the bathroom, or the kitchen. I peer out the sliding door into the backyard, starting to get worried, but I don't see her there either. She's home - her car's in the garage - and she wouldn't be out for a walk. As she says, ten hours in stiletto heels means that the last thing she wants to do after work is walk.

But I can't FIND her.

I'm seriously worried by the time I go methodical and check each room. And there she is in Zoë's room, sitting on her daughter's bed. And sniffling.

All my irritation goes out the window when I hear that sound. Her nose is red, which means she's been crying for a while, and now I'm really scared. "Heather? Sweetheart, what is it?"

She looks up, and in two long strides I'm over to the bed and sitting down next to her. She just sort of leans into me, and I hug her, wondering what's wrong. "Is it…Heather, is something wrong with the tadpole?"

Her head comes up so fast she nearly whacks me in the chin. "Oh Jim! No! No, I'm sorry, it's nothing." She sniffles again. "Nothing's the matter."

That's obviously not true, but I see what she's trying to say, so I let out a breath and pull her back into me. "Okay. Okay then, why are you crying?"

She makes this little helpless gesture with her hands. "It's ruined."

I try to think of what those words would apply to, and come up blank. "What's ruined?"

Heather pulls away again, and reaches for the flat box on the bedspread that I'm only just noticing. It looks like the boxes that dress shirts used to come in, and its edges are kind of furry with age. She lifts the top off, and now her words make sense.

It's a christening dress, the old-fashioned kind - yards of material and ruffles. And I'm guessing that it's pretty old, a family heirloom kind of thing. Not just because it has that ivory look that old fabric gets after a while, but because of the holes.

"It was made by my great-great-grandmother," Heather whispers. "Papa had it shipped from Hungary when Mama was pregnant with me. Zoë was christened in it."

It has a sort of musty smell, and when she lifts the skirt and I see a tear run straight up it, I think I understand. This thing has been in the Marazek family for generations, and Heather was its guardian, but it's reached the end of its existence.

I leave one arm around her and reach out myself. The fabric's completely shot, but the lace seems to be made of stronger stuff, and there's little pearls sewn on here and there that are just fine. "Heather, nothing lasts forever, you know that."

She wipes her eyes. "I know. But I'll have to explain to Mama - and tradition's so important to her."

I think I can figure out the rest of it. Mama won't be happy with some new storebought outfit for the tadpole, and Mama isn't the only one to whom tradition is important. I just stare at the ruined gown for a minute, wanting to make it all better somehow.

Heather straightens a little. "I'm sorry, darling. Call it hormones. It's really not that big of a deal, the baby won't notice." She tries a little laugh, and reaches for the box lid.

And the idea comes, arriving whole in my head, the way the best ideas do. "You know," I say casually, "my mom's family has a christening gown too. It's not as venerable as this one - my grandma made it for my aunt when she was born - but it's not halfway bad." Of course, I haven't thought about the thing in probably two decades, but I'm pretty sure it's still in existence.

Heather looks up at me, blue-green eyes wide and wet, and I smile a little. "It's kind of plain, too, compared to this. But…I dunno…maybe we could use some of the lace from this one to spruce it up a bit?" I don't know from clothing most of the time, but given the age of the thing, I'm willing to bet a lot of money that the lace is hand-made.

For a second, I'm afraid I've said the wrong thing. But then Heather's arms go around my neck, and she buries her face in the hollow of my throat. "Jim," she says, and her voice is strong. "You've just proved to me again that I couldn't have a better husband."

I hug her back, feeling strong and, well, masculine. Nothing like making your woman happy. In fact, it almost cancels out the worry that comes along with my great idea.

You see, I'm pretty sure the gown's still in existence because Ellie was baptized in it, and there are two women back in Jersey who kept everything they had from her life. My ex, and my ex-mother-in-law. Which means that, to get it back, I'll have to tell them what's going on.

Oh boy.

We cuddle for a minute, and then Heather pulls away and puts the lid back on the box. "Zoë will be sorry," she says, resigned. "She always loved this." And she slides it back under her daughter's bed.

"She'll understand," I say, and Heather flashes me a smile.

"Of course she will. How was your night, darling?"

I grin back. "I sold my house."

It's almost as much fun as watching Warrick. Her eyes widen, her jaw drops. _"Already?"_

I shrug, keeping it casual. "Some development group has its eye on the neighborhood. They met the asking price without blinking." I smirk at her. "Good thing I didn't put in that dishwasher, huh?"

It's not often I get to enjoy the sight of Heather Marazek speechless. We set the asking price high, gambling on the booming housing market in Las Vegas and deciding that we could always drop it later if we had to. I expected to have to negotiate something lower, at the very least.

A fast sale, at the asking price - the housing gods are smiling upon us, it seems.

Heather sputters a little, then finds her voice. "Jim Brass! You are…" She shakes her head. "How soon do you have to be out?"

"Two weeks. It should be plenty of time if I don't waste it." I don't really have to sort through everything beforehand, it's just more efficient that way.

I could take vacation time, but I'm saving that for later. Gonna need it once the tadpole's born.

Heather shakes her head, and slips back into my arms, and we just hold each other for a while. Change can be good, but it's still scary sometimes.

"Want to go out to dinner to celebrate?" I ask at last. It's been a while since we've been out on a real date - we've been busy.

"I have a better idea," Heather purrs against my collarbone, and all of me jumps to attention. "Let's celebrate at home today."

No objections here, lemme tell you. Just for the fun of it, I slide an arm under her knees and stand up. Hey, I may be over fifty, but I still hit the gym.

Heather squeals - again, not something I hear a lot. "Jim!"

"Relax." I carry her out into the hallway. "You think I'm going to drop you?"

She curls an arm around my neck. "I have every faith that you won't."

Damn straight.

**Zoë**

Well, here we go with attempt number two. Mom's baby news shook me up so much I never did tell her about my internship, and things have been insane since then - the only times I've had time to call have been when she's asleep, or at work. I don't like to call her at work; she says she doesn't mind, but I know she gets into her Lady Heather zone and being Mom when I call kind of screws with that. Besides, she's WORKING - it's just not polite.

I did call Dad, though, and he was really happy for me. He said he'd put me in touch with some colleagues out here to help me find a good place to stay, and while I don't really need the help, I'll take it - cheap is good, and cheap and safe is better. I know I've made him proud, and that's a great feeling.

So I pick up the phone, half-expecting it to ring under my hand again, but it doesn't this time. And it's not Mom who answers, it's Jim.

That's still a little startling, even though I'm used to the idea of him being there. But his gruff "Hello?" is getting to be familiar.

I smile at the sound, knowing I have the right to tease him now. "Hey, Jim. How's the father-to-be?"

His voice gets warmer. "Oh, hi, Zoë. Man, you don't want to know."

I can't resist poking him a little. "Sure I do. That's my little brother or sister, you know."

He snorts, and I know I've scored a hit. "Your mom's fine," he says, in a blatant attempt to change the subject.

"Good. Can I talk to her?" Normally I wouldn't mind chatting with him for a bit, but I'm all excited again, even though I know this is one more change on top of all the others.

"Sure thing. Hold on." A moment of static hiss, and I can hear him faintly, saying "It's Zoë."

There's a rustle, and then Mom's voice. "Hello, my baby."

"Hi Mom." I gulp, and then just say it. "I-got-an-internship!"

There's a pause while she processes that. "An internship? Zoë, where, how?"

She's surprised, but I can hear the excitement too. "The Massachusetts Mental Health Center. I didn't think I would get it, but I did, Mom, it's really prestigious." I take a breath. "It's for a year, pretty intense, and it might mean a fellowship afterwards."

She's laughing now, that happy sound. "Zoë, you've done it again, sprung a surprise on me! This is wonderful!" Her volume drops, and I can hear her talking to Jim. "She got an internship at the Massachusetts Mental Health Center."

"Go ahead and let him on the extension, Mom," I say, feeling bold now that I've delivered my news and surprised her. I'm not sure I'll ever think of him as a stepdad - I'm kind of old for that, and besides, he's just _Jim_ - but he's going to be family.

Within seconds there's a click, and he's back on. "Congratulations, kiddo," he rumbles, and I grin again.

"Tell us all about it," Mom demands.

"It lasts a year and the stipend's about twenty-one thousand. I'll have to find a place to live, but Dad says he'll line something up for me."

"Good," Mom says, and I'm glad for the millionth time that my parents don't hate each other. They might have decided they couldn't stay together, and I'm not saying that the time right before they split was any picnic, but they're both classy people. It could have been so much worse.

"When does it start?" Jim asks.

"July first. Don't worry, I can get time off for when the baby's born, I checked."

"Not if it interferes," Mom says sternly, but I ignore that. There's no way I'm going to miss it.

They let me babble on for a while, and I jump around from housing to grades to classes to what Gisele thinks of it all, with both of them sticking in questions when I take a breath. It feels so good to talk it all over with Mom the way I've been wanting to since I heard about it. I mean, Dad was great, but it's not the same thing as telling her.

And when I finally wind down, they fill me in on Mom's pregnancy, and that's where it's cool to have Jim - he doesn't let her get away with anything. Not that she's having any problems, thank God. And I'm so glad he's there to keep an eye on her. Of course, she wouldn't be in this condition without him, but you know what I mean.

It's a little funny to think of him living in our house. It's even weirder to realize that by the time I get back home, it won't be our house any more. They'll be living in a place I've never seen.

But Mom says it'll have a room for me. And I guess that's what really matters.

I mean, life goes on, right? I'm getting ready to be completely independent, and at the same time Mom's starting over with another kid. Heck, I'm old enough to be the kid's mother myself. Definitely weird.

Still cool, though.

I just hope the kid looks like Mom!


	5. Karma 5

Heather 

It's morning, and I'm feeling . . . adventurous. Normally I don't at this hour—the topsy turvy life of a nightworker has my circadian rhythm on a backwards loop, but at this moment, with the barest light in the bedroom and a big, warm sleeping man next to me, I feel particularly aware of myself. I slide one hand across my abdomen under the nightie top, aware of a slight roundness there now; the soft swell of the little one snoozing like daddy and it makes me smile. Such a small thing, and yet, so utterly profound. A part of me, a part of Jim, and in that blend, someone entirely new as well . . .

Next to me Jim rolls over, and I shift as well, pressing to his broad bare back, slipping an arm around his waist. He sighs in his sleep, a sound that warms me since it tells me how much I'm part of his comfort now. Usually Jim pulls my arm under his and holds it, but his sleep is so deep right now that he doesn't.

I smile.

Carefully, I slide my arm down his ribs, his waist. He's so very stocky, but solid all the way through. A man of substance, my father would have said. Carefully I let my elbow drape over his hip, forearm bending down and reeeaaach . . . Oh yes.

Jim may be asleep, but parts of him are not.

Warm, firm and definitely warm. I muffle a giggle against his shoulder as I grip a little more firmly and slowly slide my fingers over him, barely able to make my middle finger and thumb ring around the thickness. Jim gives a little low sleepy growl. I stop moving my fingers and just hold him, feeling the throbs now, the stiffness growing in my hand. After a moment, I move again, stroking in a nice, slow glide, then down and once more up . . . Jim's hips rock a bit, pushing against my grip. I stop.

It's an evil game, but so much fun. I say nothing, he says nothing, yet somehow it's more fun that way. I tease him, and he pushes for more in a lovely slow play of pleasure. I slide my top leg over his, grinding myself happily against his bottom. Jim has a nice tushie, for a man. Pleasingly muscular. I think I'm going to lose the game today, because I'm definitely feeling urgent now, and plant a kiss on the back of his neck. His back vibrates as he laughs a deep laugh.

"Don't stop now . . . this is getting very interesting . . ." he tells me, and I laugh as I stroke him once more.

"I want you."

"I'm sensing this, yes. Oooh, let me tell you, Hon, that your hand is much, much nicer than MY hand . . ."

"I have other parts equally eager to get in on the action," I pout a little. My entire professional career is based on my ability to tease—so why is it that Jim Brass is driving ME nuts?

"Hmmm—well, considering you've been so affectionate . . . " he rolls onto his back and reaches for me. We tussle a moment, just giving into our mutual gentle need to touch. Jim makes me feel very feminine at times, just by being the big man that he is, and when I feel the strength of his hands it makes me purr inside. Sometimes outside too.

"I'm just in a good mood this morning," I blush a little, straddling him and looking down into sleepy smiling face. I love his stubble, his slightly tousled hair, and his long, gorgeous eyelashes. The thick fur across his chest, tangled and grey draws my fingers and I slide them through it, tickled by the soft feel.

"Hey--MY mood's getting better all the time—" he replies, reaching for my hips and gently lifting, guiding, pushing . . . . Oooh perfection! I shiver at how full I feel, how the thrill of joining with him is still enough to make me hot and anxious and hungry. Jim's hands slide up the backs of my thighs and his eyes are half-closed now, the glitter in them fierce and completely masculine. I lean forward, brace my hands on the mattress over his shoulders and deeply kiss him as we both gently rock into a very, VERY good morning wake-up call.

OOO OOO OOO

Now I remember why it was important to have a good morning.

The two plane tickets are under the Jersey Devils magnet on the refrigerator door, the pale blue of Nevada Air unmistakable against the white enamel. I see them, and suddenly it's all back in a flash. Trip to Tahoe in a few hours to see my mother. Oooh I'm not sure I'm ready for this. Jim is already seated at the breakfast bar, eating a bagel with pineapple cream cheese; another, toasted and neatly spread is waiting on a matching plate for me. I pale.

"Whole thing just came back to you, huh?" he observes sympathetically. I nod, and head to the sink for a glass of water. I have two, in fact, using the second one to wash down the prenatal vitamins that Doctor Phair has prescribed for me. They're regular horse pills, but for the good of the baby—down the hatch. Jim comes up behind me and nuzzles my neck. He's already showered and dressed; blue slacks and sports coat, light blue shirt but no tie, and it's unbuttoned at the throat. I can smell a hint of aftershave, and a more subtle scent of good, clean man, which relaxes me once more.

"Yeah, well it's time to gird your loins and get going, sweetheart, because with all the new security checkpoints we have about twenty minutes. I'll get the bags in the car and check in with work so they know where I'll be." As he speaks his arms encircle me and his big hands cup perfectly over the small swell of where the tadpole is. It's such an intimate gesture, and I'd bet the bank Jim doesn't actually realize he's doing it even as it's happening. I sigh.

"I'll hurry," I agree.

I make it in record time, and before I'm quite ready for it, we're at the annex to McCarran and walking into a tiny office for Nevada Air. I'm nervous. Really nervous. Jim sees how pale I am and shoots me a concerned look; I say nothing and look away, which is a mistake since I'm now gazing out the window at the small Cessnas on the field. Small, little, almost fragile looking things.

"Heather?" a world of worry in his tone. I look up at him and for a moment think about bluffing, but his gaze goes right through me and I know there's not a chance I'll be able to pull it off.

"I don't like flying."

For a moment he stares at me, perplexed.

"You see Zoë twice a year. Major trip across the country." He points out. I nod, closing my eyes.

"Yes on BIG planes, Jim. Big, big jumbo jets with stabilizers and headphones and shades you can pull down over the window so you don't need to look out and see how . . . high up . . ." I trail off, weakly. Jim's expression is torn between consternation and comedy; he's fighting not to grin even as his arm goes around me.

"And so the dominatrix goes Erica Jong on me—okay, we'll get through this together all right? It's a short trip, you can keep your eyes closed and I'll talk to you the whole time if you like. "

"Thank you. I might need it," I admit softly. This is hard, confessing to this foolish fear. I've built my career up by being strong and in my own way, powerful. After all this time I've molded myself to that standard, so admitting to this truth is hard. Everyone has a fear; I know that.

I just didn't want Jim to know mine.

He squeezes my waist and leans in to whisper to me. "Hey, you want to know something? I don't like dead bodies. Talk about a real problem, considering my job, huh? But there you have it. I'll do what needs to be done for any investigation, but I'll never sit in on any autopsy if I can possibly help it. Give me interrogations and crack houses and firefights—but 419s still creep me out."

I look askance at him; he nods solemnly.

"But Homicide—"

"—Involves a lot of dead bodies, yes. One of the ironies of life. So tell me about your mom. What's she likely to ask me?"

I grin softly.

"Are you going to marry my daughter? Are you gainfully employed? Will you beat or abuse my daughter? Do you go to church? Aren't you a little old for my daughter? Are there better looking people in your family? How much have you in savings and insurance?"

"Hmm. Yes, yes, no, yes, no, no, enough to make sure Heather, the baby and Zoë will be fine. How'm I doing?"

I laugh and lean against him. "Perfectly, darling. I'm just trying to give you a good idea of what you're facing—my mother is very . . . old fashioned about relationships. Part of it is her generation, and part of it is her personality."

"Good, then that's one more thing we have in common." He tells me softly.

Seriously.

BRASS

We are standing on the porch of a small apartment in a little gated community called Pine Rest. It's a place dedicated to retired people, and a few of them are cruising around in their pastel jogging sweats, walking arthritic terriers and eyeing Heather and me discreetly. I feel pretty good, having gotten my sweetie through the plane ride and safely back on terra firma with a minimum of terror on her part. Lots of hugs, a few distracting kisses thrown in for good measure—man it's so strange to see Heather without that confidence she normally wears all the time, like a cologne. I have to admit, it was also kind of—a turn-on, too. To be needed like that . . . very sweet.

Anyway, Heather's standing next to me, hand in mine and her fingers are ice-cold. I can tell she's nervous on my behalf, but I give her hand a squeeze, getting one back as the door swings open. I get a brief glimpse of a living room before focusing on a figure in the doorway, her arms reaching out to Heather, and it's all I can do not to blink as I take in my first look at Lolu Marazek, Mother of my Fiancée and Terror of all Others.

She looks like a Norfin Troll doll.

You know, tanned, little and squat, wrinkled, with wispy woolly hair that's in a bun at the nape of her thick neck, but one good upward brushing and it would be standing high in that weird 'do all those dolls had. Heather is bending a little to hug her, both of them rattling off in Hungarian about a mile a minute. I stand and wait; they'll remember me eventually. At least Heather will, I hope.

Finally both of them turn to me, and all pink-cheeked and smiling, Heather reaches for my hand and murmurs, "Mama, this is Jim, the man I'm going to marry."

She looks at me with those snapping dark eyes and I feel like I'm being sized up by a skinned badger. She glares at me, all four feet ten inches of Magyar motherhood, and I feel my testicles tighten a bit in an ancient instinctive response, but I stay relaxed, mild. I extend my hand.

"Mrs. Marazek very pleased to finally meet you."

Suspiciously she extends one small hand to grip mine, and yeah, it's as hard as she can squeeze. I barely feel it, this little monkey's paw she's got.

"Keptin Brass," she intones, formally. Great. She sounds like Bela Lugosi's aunt. I nod, hiding this thought as best I can. Heather has my other hand, and squeezes it while her mother speaks up again. "Come in, come in—it's been a long trip and I know you both can use something to drink."

In we go, and I'm instantly aware that I'm now in Old World Knickknack Central. Cuckoo clocks, figurines, carved boxes, painted dishes, cabinets full of carvings and music boxes. Every surface holds something cute or hand-blown, and I'm terrified to sneeze. Once our Tadpole gets to be a climber, Lolu is gonna have her little talons full, that's for sure. Politely I sit on a sofa covered in crocheted lace antimacassars, and find my attention caught by a familiar magazine on the carved wood coffee table. Sports Illustrated?

Heather is next to me now, smiling when she sees my gaze. Out in the kitchen, I hear puttering as Ma Marazek gets us refreshments. Probably scooping a few cupfuls straight out of the cauldron.

"She likes you," Heather tells me. I turn to look at my honey, my gaze slightly skeptical.

"Yeah, I can feel the love—" I whisper back, but my grin helps, and Heather hides a giggle as her mother comes back into the room carrying a tray. I perk up when I see the goodies, and figure what the hey, at least I'll eat well on this visit. Lolu sits opposite us and waves a claw over the spread.

"Langos and Korozott, I'm touched. Thank you."

Oh man, so this is where Heather learned to cook— on the tray are plates of soft deep fried bread puffs and paprika cream cheese spread. Yeah, I can make nice if the food's going to be THIS good. Lolu cracks a bit of a smile because I've pronounced them a little oddly, but I'm sure she appreciates the attempt. I hold back, waiting for her to have some, and she eyes me approvingly, then picks up the smallest puff on the tray.

"Pleess, help yourselves. Hajana, eat, you look pale."

I hide my chuckle as the tall, proud dominatrix at my side obediently picks up a bread puff and begins to put some of the spread on it under her mother's watchful eye. Lolu speaks again.

"I'm gled you flew instead of driving. We heve more time that way. So, why do you want to marry my Hajana, besides she is beautiful, smart and too good for any man."

"Mama!" Heather chokes. I lay a hand on her arm, amused at her indignation and look at the little woman opposite me.

"I love her. I KNOW I'm not nearly good enough for her, Lolu, but for some damned reason she loves me back, and that's more than enough for me. This is excellent. Ever thought about putting some grated black pepper in with the paprika?"

I have her a little off-balance now; Mama Marazek isn't used to being called by her first name, OR by having anyone critique her puffs by the look of it. She glances down at the puff in her hand, considering it.

"That's not—traditional." She objects, but weakly, as if my suggestion is appealing to her. I shrug.

"I won't tell if you don't—but hey, these Langos are perfect. Did you use a deep fryer, or a vat?"

And we're off and running. I get the lowdown on how she made the puffs, and she gives me a tour of her tiny kitchen, which is as gleaming and spotless as an operating room. Heather holds back a little, grinning and leaning on the doorway, her arms crossed.

"—And of course tonight we'll have goulash. It's not for everyone, but I like it. You don't have a hole in your stomach, do you . . . Jim?"

"A hole—" I realize she probably means an ulcer, and shake my head. She used my first name. Big step here. "No, not for lack of opportunities though. Goulash sounds great."

She looks up at me again, and although she still hasn't completely smiled, I can tell some of the crust is softening.

"Good. Now here is the list of things I need from the store."

OOO OOO OOO

Heather's napping, and it's a good thing, because Lolu and I are sitting on the sofa looking at a photo album. The scent of baking poppy seed roll is filling the apartment, and in the background I can hear something soothing and classical playing, but my attention is focused on the Polaroid photos neatly mounted behind plastic in the book on Lolu's bony lap.

"Beautiful. Even as a baby. Eyes like topez, my Hajana. Zoë never got those, she has ember like her father. You have blue though."

"Yeah. All my family did." Ohh man, baby Hajana Marazek in the same little white lace dress she showed me only last week. Man what an elf she was; big blue eyes, little wisps of hair curling up from her head. I glance at the woman holding her in the shot, and the familiar almond shape of the eyes is there in Lolu, who's dressed in a pantsuit. Since dad's not in the shot I assume he's taking the photo. Lolu speaks again.

"And here is her first grade picture. I did her hair up—"

Another changeling shot. Long dark hair now wrapped in colored ribbons and pinned in ringlets along her head. Big grin, and one front tooth missing, but the blue-green eyes stay the same, beckoning, enticing. I grin. Lolu grins. "Such an imp! She wore those ribbons for three days after that. I finally had to take them out when she was asleep."

"She's still feisty. And likes ribbons." I tell Lolu, who nods.

"And leather, of all things. Anyway, here is Hajana with her father, camping. Squaw Velly."

"Ah." Ah indeed. The girl in this shot is on the verge of womanhood, lithe and yet unhappy with having her photo taken. She's shading her eyes and pouting a bit in the direction of the camera, shorts revealing long skinny legs, and her pink tee-shirt has a rhinestone outline of a cat on it. Off to one side I see a tall man with a bony frame, and a pretty impressive beard. He's a thinning blond by the look of him, and one hand rests on his daughter's shoulder.

"My Janos. He died many years ago, just after Hajana married. Bad heart. Your heart is good?"

"My heart is doing pretty good," I reassure her. Lolu nods and we pass the time with the rest of the photos, including a wedding shot of Heather and Glen—she looks a little like Cher with long straight hair and thick bangs, and he looks uncomfortable in his slightly too big tux. I smile—I can't be jealous of the guy. He had his time with her, and Zoë is a terrific dividend, but it's all in the past, and right now the future's all I'm concerned about.

Finally we come to the end of the book, and Lolu sets it down, then looks up at me, sharply. She takes one of my hands in hers and I feel a familiar coolness; must run in the Marazek family.

"Jim. All I want is for my daughter's heppiness. You know as well as do I that in the job she does . . ." Lolu makes a scowly little face and I try not to laugh, " . . . . meny, meny men THINK they love her, but they do not. They love the thing she plays, the role. The cruel one."

"Ah. Yeah, I know that. I've seen the Dominion and I know the clientele, but I'm not a customer, Lolu, and never was. The woman I love—Heather, Hajana—she's the real thing. She cooks for me. She reminds me to take vitamins. She makes me take out the garbage. She was there . . . when my daughter died."

"Ah—" more hand pats and squeezes to my fingers, and on that wizened face I see a deeper, truer understanding of the pain of loss.

It dawns on me that Lolu probably does know about that.

"Good. If you see my real Hajana, then you are a better man than most. But this job of yours—it's not safe. You take risks, this is so?"

I can't lie.

"There are risks. I'm a cop, it comes with the territory. Ninety five percent of the time it's boring work and perfectly safe. But there is that part that involves some danger, yeah."

Lolu gives another frown, but somehow I can tell that this one is because of the job, not me personally. She gives a noisy sigh and nods. "Then you will be kereful from now on. Very. Kereful. And soon you will be retiring too?"

"Well," I tip my head, considering exactly how to answer. Heather and I agreed we'd tell Lolu about the baby together, and that discussion would extend into ones about the future including retirement, so for the moment I'm stuck. Then I hear Heather walking in and smile a little. I look up and there she is, looking at us both, slightly sleepy, definitely gorgeous. I rise.

"Feeling okay?"

"Rested." And absently she runs a hand over the little swell on her abdomen that we both know so well.

Intimate gesture.

"Oh my GOD—Hajana, you're going to have a baby!" Lolu rasps out, choking a little. I take a protective step next to Heather, not sure if the Wrath of Mom is about to blast us, but instead that leathery old face shifts, and she rises from the sofa and totters towards us, arms out held. I move so she can hug Heather, but that's not her plan; instead I'm caught in a three-way embrace, and I'm not ashamed to admit it feels pretty good. The two of them are babbling in Hungarian again, a mile a minute, with Lolu asking questions every other breath. Heather slides a hand into mine, squeezing it. I squeeze back.

"Ooooh now this is AMAZING, a gift from God, a MIRACLE yes? Jim, I cannot believe it, my Hajana once again . . . oh, I have to sit down!" Lolu announces, dazed, grinning, looking less like a gargoyle and more like a Jack-o-Lantern left out a little too long. We all sit, and I slip an arm around Heather, loving the warm sleepy feel of her against my side. Lolu looks from her to me and back again, all the while shaking her head.

"So," I begin in my mildest tone, "I take it I have permission to marry your daughter?"

For that I get swatted on each knee; one from Heather, one from her mom.

Now THAT'S a Marazek thing.

OOO OOO OOO

Of course there's no question now of sleeping on the couch, and as I stretch out on the guestroom bed, I sigh contentedly. What a dinner, Oy! Lolu knocked herself out with a goulash that's going into the culinary record books as far as I'm concerned, and I'm gonna have a commendation plaque made up for her that she can hang in between the cuckoo clocks and painted plates.

Heather opens the bathroom door and stands framed in it, and Hel-lo, suddenly my stomach isn't the concern anymore. She's got on a powder blue baby doll nightie that is doing seriously bad things to my imagination, particularly since the light behind her is filtering through the very filmy material. She smiles at me, half-naughty, half adoring.

Man I am one lucky bastard.

"Come here," I motion her over, enjoying the way she slinks over. It's natural grace, not artifice, and I sit up, sliding my arms around her waist. Oh so carefully I lay my ear right over where the Tadpole is probably snoozing after getting a good share of the Goulash tonight. I don't hear anything but the faint gurgle of Heather's stomach as she laughs and strokes my hair.

"I love you so much, Jim," she tells me. My arms tighten, and I turn my face, kissing her belly, rubbing my wet cheeks along her nightgown as a wave of emotion hits me right then and I know this glorious moment is a redemption for whatever sins I've left behind.

Heather shifts, coming to lie down beside me on the bed, and I curl around her as I have nearly every night we've spent together. She fits to me and I to her, and I know later we'll make love, but for this lovely moment, this blissfully secure beautiful moment—

We're already joined.


	6. 6

**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and we do not have permission to borrow them. All the others belong to us, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask us first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. **

**Spoilers: "Slaves of Las Vegas" and "Lady Heather's Box" **

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

**Brass**

I've always loved the smell of fresh paint. Don't know why; maybe it goes back to the first days of school, when things were pretty exciting even if it meant the end of summer.

It means money, too, somewhere in my subconscious; I did a couple of summers of painting people's houses for my Uncle Joey, who was a contractor. He's long gone, but I've still got the skills his guys taught me.

And let me tell you--working for other people is nowhere near as great as doing it for yourself. I'm smoothing paint onto the walls of my own place, Heather's and mine, and every stroke is a little satisfaction.

Now that we've got that wallpaper down, anyway. The only thing satisfying about that was carting it out to the garbage can. Old cabbage roses in the guest bedroom and pink and gold _fuzzy_ in the bathroom.

But it's gone now, and we can paint in peace. The nice thing about this arrangement is that we can take our time for a while--it's a little cramped at Heather's place right now, but we have a place to live, we can get the basics done here before we pile in. Not what we first intended, but hey, I wasn't about to turn down the offer for my house.

It was a little weird--okay, a lot--cleaning out my place. I bought it all those years ago because it was cheap, but I wasn't really thinking long-term at the time; most of me was still back in Jersey. And then I never did really think about it; it was an okay house, it served my needs. Real planning was never involved.

This, we're planning. Thinking about the future, about making a place where somebody small can grow up happy and safe.

I run the roller down into the tray and lift it again for another stretch of wall. I'm gonna be sore tomorrow, but I really don't care. Besides, painting is good thinking time.

My mind keeps going back to all the memories I just packed up. I mean, I had to do it kind of fast--we had no clue that my place would sell so quickly, but apparently the developers have got their eye on my old neighborhood. And aside from the fact that it's the first place Heather and I made love (and the second, and the third), I don't have any qualms about seeing it pulled down. And the price was great, higher than we expected.

So I had to box everything up pretty quickly. I meant to go through my stuff, figure out what I wanted to keep and what I never used, but I didn't really have that much time, even with Heather to help.

Bless her, she handled the guest bedroom. Most of the junk there was just stuff that I didn't have any other place to put, but I forgot how much of Ellie's stuff was in there; things she'd left behind when she visited, or just things left over from when she was a kid. I kept putting that room off, and putting it off, and then I came back from an off-shift call downtown and found that Heather had packed it all neatly away. "It will keep," was all she told me.

And I guess it will.

More paint, a nice wine color. I've got the windows open wide, and the radio on a classic jazz station, and the velvet tones of Tormé are filling the air. Painting's a peaceful occupation, and the only thing that could make this better--

The dropcloth crackles behind me, and there better is, in the flesh. Heather's carrying a takeout bag and looking delicious, from the scarf over her hair down past--hoo boy--the blouse tied under her breasts, to the old soft shorts, and allll the way down those long legs to her canvas tennies.

It's an interesting picture, a little odd because she's got the sleeves of the blouse buttoned at her wrists despite the heat, but I know it's for a reason--she doesn't want to get paint on her arms because she'll have to dress up for work later. Kinda ruins the dominatrix image.

I put down my roller and go over to collect a kiss, and Heather laughs and makes sure it's a good one, wiping a little paint from my neck afterwards. "Jim, it looks great in here."

"So far." I look around. I haven't hit the ceiling yet, but half the walls are done.

"Well, let's eat, and then I'll join you."

We dragged in some of my old cheap lawn furniture to serve while we worked on the place, two chairs and a wobbly table, so we spread out lunch there and sit. "Are you sure the fumes aren't bothering you?" I ask around a mouthful of sandwich, and Heather taps my hand for talking with my mouth full.

"As long as we keep the windows open I should be fine," she says. "Do we want to bother with the closets?"

I swallow. "Yes." I want this to be--well, not perfect, but as good as possible in the time we've got. "It won't take that much time. But let me do them."

She rolls her eyes a little, but she doesn't argue. Smart lady. Paint fumes can be a problem for anyone, and she's got the tadpole to think of right now.

After lunch I crack a soda from the cooler we brought over--the fridge is running but it's a pain in the ass to go downstairs every time we want a drink--and start up again. For a little while it's just me; Heather's in what will be the nursery, putting tape over the molding, and I can hear her singing absently along to the music every so often. The walls in there are going to be a sort of lemony yellow, much lighter than the other bedrooms, but we're keeping white for the halls, just slapping on a fresh coat. The master bath's about thirty years out of date; we're not touching that one yet. I got such a good price for my house that we might be able to redo it.

"Did Zoë make up her mind what colors she wants?" I call, and Heather comes back in, choosing a paintbrush from the array with the deliberate grace I love.

"Blue-gray walls and a white ceiling, she said," Heather replies, starting on one corner where the roller couldn't reach. Zoë argued at first, saying that since she was scarcely ever home we should make it a guest room, but we just ignored that. Family house, everybody gets a bedroom.

A family. We're putting together a family. It feels…odd. I haven't had a family for years, not a real one--an ex-wife and an estranged daughter didn't really count. But it won't just be Heather and me, not just middle-aged lovers finally tying the knot, it'll be the tadpole and Zoë and even Lolu. Instant relatives.

Y'know, I could do with a family again.

**Zoë**

The cheerful voice isn't who I expected, but it's slightly familiar. "Captain Brass' phone."

"Um…hello? Is Jim available?" I'm slightly derailed.

"He's right in the middle of something. Can he call you back?" The voice is male, deep, slightly drawling, and suddenly a face pops up to match it. The crime lab guy we met in Waffle World.

"Sure, could you tell him Zoë called? It's nothing urgent."

"Zoë, right, sure. You're Ms. Marazek's daughter, right?"

I'm impressed that he remembered. "Yes, and you're Nick."

He laughs. "Very good! Listen, I just want to say that we're all really happy for Jim. He's a great guy and he deserves someone like your mom."

Well, I wasn't expecting _that._ I totally agree with him, of course, but most people get all weird when they know what my mom does for a living. "I'm pretty happy about it too. They're good for each other." I don't mention the baby; I don't know if Jim has told his colleagues about it yet.

"Good." And he does sound pleased. "Oh, hey, while I've got you, there's something I want to ask."

Ohh-kay. What's it going to be, questions about Mom's chosen career, what-was-it-like-growing-up-with-her, is Jim kinky too--

"Jim says the wedding's gonna be small, and we can't talk him out of that. So we're going to concentrate on the party instead, and we need to ask you about options."

He's surprised me again, and not just because I wasn't expecting the question. "Uh…what party? And who's 'we'?"

I remember his grin because I can practically hear it over the phone. "The one Jim doesn't know about. If he won't have a big ceremony, we gotta do _something._ The folks at the crime lab, that is."

I give that a moment's thought, and I can feel my own grin spreading, the one that Mom says means "trouble". "Oh, absolutely. That's a great idea. And I know some of the Dominion people would want to be in on it."

"Good." He sounds satisfied. "Gimme your number, and we can work out the details."

I do, my mind already humming with ideas. It's really Mom pushing for a small ceremony, though apparently Jim hasn't mentioned that to his friends, and while it's her special day, I still think it's a pity to not make more of it. This sounds like the perfect solution.

"All right then," he says. "It'll be me or Warrick calling you then. This is cool, very cool."

"It is," I agree, pulling a sheet of paper over and starting to make a list. "Mom loves surprises."

And she's going to love this one.

**Heather**

I hate paperwork. Well, no one I know loves the stuff, but honestly, sometimes I think I should have a secretary to handle it. However, a great deal of this requires personal decisions on my part, so it's probably just as well. My Dominion is as much art as it is business, in a way. And it's busy tonight; I had to squeeze to get even forty minutes of time in my office.

Not that the thought makes filling out order forms any more palatable. Still, a lot of it can be done by computer these days. Which reminds me; Trevor, my Webmaster--in the cyber sense of the word--wants to revamp the site, which means he needs new photographs of me for the opening page. And now is the time to do them, before the tadpole makes his or herself outwardly visible.

I flip open my planner and look at the various dates. Yes, there's time next weekend to fit in the ego of the photographer and the costume changes required. I don't really care for that particular artist, but he's quite good, and that's what matters. His...enthusiasm...for his work can be safely ignored.

And the thought of costumes leads me straight into the hovering problem of what I will do when I begin to show. Clever dressing can conceal a pregnancy for a surprising amount of time, but if this babe is anything like Zoë, it will be obvious from the seventh month onward.

I don't have an answer, though. I could stay behind the scenes for a while, but three months, even two, is really too long. And while there are more men who find a pregnant woman arousing than one might think, a rounded belly rather ruins the dominatrix image. Flowing robes, perhaps...I could ease into a style change if I started now...I'm tired.

I feel uneasy. I rub at the back of my neck and return to my forms, trying to concentrate. Costumes can wait for another day. But something's nagging at the back of my mind, something trying to get my attention. I'm trying so hard to concentrate on the paperwork, some of it has to be done tonight and I really don't want to bring it home with me, but I keep losing track of what I'm doing.

Then Sapphire bursts in through my office door, a breach of protocol so blatant that I know there must be a transcending urgency behind it; Sapphire is the best of submissives and only breaks the role when something is truly wrong. "Lady Heather, Chen's client is sick, she thinks it's a heart attack."

That is, indeed, a situation justifying the intrusion. I push quickly to my feet, trying to remember who Chen is seeing tonight. "Has someone called 911?"

Sapphire moves out of the doorway, ingrained habit bowing her indigo-haired head as I pass her. "Yes, Lady Heather, Chen told me to do it before I came to you."

"Good." I head for the pool house at a speed just short of running; I don't want to alarm my other clients, interrupting sessions and causing disturbance is bad for their psyches and could harm...Ms. Sharon, now I remember her name, if they crowd around. My palms are sweating--in fact, I'm perspiring all over, but I don't have time to pay attention.

Ahead I can see Pauline, heading in the same direction, crop still in her hand, and it's that image that lingers, ridiculously clear, as everything else around me fades away. And then the black covers everything, even my desperate desire to see to my client, and I'm falling without end.

**Brass**

I'm filling out paperwork on our latest catch, mentally blessing Grissom for being such an all-knowing bastard the way he can be sometimes. I can put up with all kinds of superiority if it snags us a child molester, and tonight he and Greg did, six ways to Sunday. Sanders looked a little green around the gills when we were through demolishing the guy in Interrogation, but I don't blame him at all. Getting hardened to baby rapers is a good sign that it's time to get out of the business.

My cell rings, and I scoop it up; the number's not familiar, but I get a lot of those. "Brass."

The voice isn't familiar either, at least at first, but the cadence is--I've heard way too many women holding back distress. "Captain Brass, this is Pauline."

I remember her face with the name. The gorgeous woman who's second-in-command at the Dominion--she made a stunning first impression on me, all blue-black skin and snow-white leather, and I know Heather trusts her.

Heather's at work tonight. If Pauline's calling--"What's wrong?"

Her voice is low and clear, but I can hear the urgency in it. "Heather passed out about twenty minutes ago, probably from hypoglycemia. She's on her way to University Hospital right now."

I don't remember standing up, but I'm reaching for my jacket, and feeling the inside of me freezing. "I'm on my way. Meet you there?"

The distress is more obvious now. "I have to stay here."

Of course she does. I'm speeding down the hallway, ignoring the people giving me strange looks. "I'll call you as soon as I know something."

"Thank you, Captain Brass."

I don't remember if I said goodbye, either, but the phone's in my pocket and I'm climbing into my car, and I slap on the flashers. To hell with protocol; all I want is to get to the hospital _right now_, before something else happens.

Heather.

The baby.

_Heather--_

It's not a long drive, though, particularly with the light going, and I slam the car into a space near the Emergency entrance, almost forgetting my keys as I climb out. I've got my badge in hand as I blast through the doors, trying very hard not to think of the last time I went looking for someone in a hospital.

The nurse at the counter is a good guy, though, and doesn't give me any trouble. The badge and my statement that I'm Heather's fiancé get me a sympathetic smile and quick directions to the correct cubicle.

I hear voices as I get close to the little curve of curtain, and one of them is Heather's, and all the air leaves me in this huge relieved rush. I don't stop, though, and the instant I pull back the cloth her eyes meet mine, all big and blue-green. She holds out a hand and I'm there.

There's somebody else in the cubicle, but I can't even look around, all I can do is look at her pale face and push a little hair out of her eyes. "Are you all right?"

My voice is so hoarse I'm surprised, but she gives me that brave grin. "I'm fine now, darling. Really."

It occurs to me finally that my grip is probably crushing her fingers, and I loosen up a bit. "What about..."

I can't finish the sentence, but my free hand settles on her belly, and hers covers mine.

"As I was about to say," comes this warm voice behind us, "the baby's just fine."

I finally turn. The other person in the room is Heather's OB-GYN, Dr. Phair, and while she's trying to look stern at us over her spectacles, she's grinning too. She's small and stocky, and every so often I wonder what color her hair is because it's always hidden under a hijab. I like her--she's got this tremendous sense of reassurance, which is a good thing in a doctor.

We're both grinning back now, a little sheepishly, but it doesn't matter at all as long as Heather and the tadpole are both okay.

"Hypoglycemia doesn't usually affect the fetus at all, as long as it's treated promptly," Dr. Phair is saying. "And yours was. Heather, did you miss a snack?"

Heather's chin goes up. "I did not. I don't know why this happened." Her voice falters a little, and I let her hand go so I can put my arm around her shoulders.

Dr. Phair softens a little. "You've done very well with controlling your blood sugar throughout your lifetime so far, but pregnancy can throw the system for a loop," she says kindly. "And every one is different. Even if your previous pregnancy went smoothly, there's no guarantee this one will go as easily."

"So I'm finding out," Heather says, a bit tartly. I bite back a grin. She knows the doctor's right, but she hates being lectured.

Dr. Phair pulls off her glasses and lets them dangle on their chain. "Annoying as hell, I know." And that makes us both laugh, such blunt words coming from a demure little OB-GYN. She smiles again. "You'll just have to pay more attention to what your body is telling you."

Heather sighs, and leans into me a little. "I know," she admits. "It was a busy night and I was trying to concentrate on something."

The doc leaves off the rest of the lecture and pats Heather's blanket-covered foot. "Well, thanks to your protectors, no harm done this time. I'll sign off on the paperwork to release you, and you can head home as soon as you like. Home, though, Heather, not back to work."

My fiancée doesn't argue, but I figure that's probably because there isn't all that much night left anyway. I pull out my cell after Dr. Phair says goodbye, and give Heather an appraising look. "Are you going to call Zoë, or am I?"

It's not really an emergency situation, thank God, but Zoë'd never forgive either one of us if we didn't tell her about it. Heather sighs, and reaches for her bag. "I need to call Pauline, too, and find out how Ms. Sharon is."

"I'll do that." I have no idea who Ms. Sharon is, the name isn't familiar, but I did promise to call back when I had news. I take a few steps away and make the call while Heather makes hers.

Pauline's voice is as cool as usual, but I can hear the relief when I tell her Heather's fine. "Thank you, Captain," she says, and I remind myself that one of these days I have to get her to call me Jim.

"Thank YOU," I reply. "Oh, Heather wanted me to ask about Ms. Sharon."

"She's all right," Pauline says. "It was an asthma attack, not her heart. Chen misread the symptoms."

"Okay." We say goodbye; I call in to the station as I wait for Heather to finish reassuring Zoë, because there is no way in hell I'm going to leave Heather tonight.

Heather's eyes have shadows under them, I notice, and she's moving stiffly as she puts away her phone. "C'mon, kiddo, I'll give you a ride," I say, and she smiles at me.

It's not until we're halfway out of the building that I realize two things. One, we make an interesting picture, me in my suit and Heather in her work clothes--tonight it's a shiny black corset and a lacy sort of skirt, and her usual stiletto boots. She should look like a working girl, but she doesn't; she's just elegant and proud as she stalks along.

Two, people are staring a little, and some of them are paramedics. My secret, not that it was much of one, is officially out; I'd be willing to bet that if I drove back to the station right now, the news would still beat me there. Not that I plan to do anything but take Heather home and tuck her into bed, with me wrapped around her.

**Heather**

Part of me thinks I should go back to the Dominion and make sure things are straightened out there, but even if it were a good idea, I'd still have to get around Jim, and I simply don't have the energy. My hypoglycemic incidents are fortunately very rare, but they leave me drained for hours afterwards.

Besides, I'm sure that Pauline has everything in hand. She always does. I'll check up on Ms. Sharon myself tomorrow afternoon. Possible scenarios fill my head, ranging from a simple upset client to a potential lawsuit, but the latter is why I keep a lawyer on retainer, and often potential problems can be averted with a modicum of personal attention.

Jim hands me into his car as though we're in the past century, and I let him. One of the things I love about him is his hidden courtly side, so at odds with the tough homicide detective.

We're out of the parking lot before he glances over, and I can see strain lingering in his face even though our little crisis is past. "Did they feed you in there?"

"Not enough," I admit. I ate what they put before me because I had to, but hospital food is hospital food.

He fishes in his coat pocket and tosses his phone into my lap. "El Rosale's. Call it in."

Of course he has them in his phone's directory. I hit the speed dial and place a takeout order, knowing that Jim always gets the same thing--beef fajitas and caramel flan. El Rosale's is the only restaurant where his selection never varies, and I tease him about it sometimes, but he just shrugs and asks why one should mess with perfection.

We usually eat in there; it's a cozy place, just right for the two of us when we're feeling a little romantic, but even if I wasn't so tired I'm not exactly dressed for the occasion. I close the phone and lean my head back, my eyelids heavy with fatigue.

I'm still angry, of course, despite Dr. Phair's words. Furious at myself for being so careless. If I'd paid more attention to the signs...

But I also know she's right. Pregnancy means unexpected changes, and sometimes one simply can't predict events.

Jim's so silent. I wonder if he's angry too.

The food's ready by the time we get to the restaurant; the twenty-four-hour capabilities of Vegas never cease to amaze me. Jim goes and gets it, putting the bag in my lap when he returns, and I savor the warmth leaking through the thin plastic into my lap.

It isn't until we're setting the table in my--our--kitchen that I ask. It's not that I'm afraid, not at all; but I am exhausted, and he's strained, and now is not a good time for an argument. But it has to be asked.

"Jim, are you angry with me?"

I've startled him. He stops in his tracks and stares at me, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows and his tie gone, and he is so dear to me that I want to take him into myself with our child so that I will never have to do without him.

"Hell, no." He puts down the plate he's holding, and in the next instant I'm enveloped in his arms, and I can feel him shaking. "No, no," he repeats into my hair, and I feel a kiss on my ear.

It takes a bit of doing, but I manage to get my arms free of his grip, and put them around him. "It's okay," I tell him, and Jim sighs.

"I was scared, sweetheart," he mutters. "I still am. Heather--"

He pulls his face out of my hair, and his eyes are narrow and dark with pain. "I can't lose you." His voice is matter-of-fact, but it's trembling too. "Either of you."

I can hear the _too_ that he didn't say, and I reach up to touch his cheek, worn and stubbly and beloved. "You won't."

It's an impossible promise, of course, but I don't care in the least. As far as I have anything to do with it, he won't lose us. I take his hand in mine and put it on my belly, which is only just beginning to curve. "You won't," I repeat.

Jim's palm presses against me, and he sighs. Life's a strange thing, that one can lose everything in an instant or find glory around the next corner.

And held in his arms, I realize once again that this man, this baby, this time, is my glory.


	7. Chapter 7

BRASS

I'm a detective.

Not the world's greatest, but I'll admit I've had my moments; enough to get me promoted to where I am which is pretty gratifying on the whole and certainly helps my paycheck. I've learned to pick up clues, evaluate evidence and make conjectures based on the information before me. Not all of those theories are right a hundred percent of the time, but enough of them are to keep me on my game.

To whit, the clues are this: car keys on the counter instead of hanging on the hook. Heather's home and in a hurry. A pair of high heels somewhat carelessly kicked under the kitchen table. She's feeling the edema a bit more. And lastly, an open cupboard revealing that one of the porcelain bowls is gone—she's eating sugar-free ice cream in some other part of the house. I wander around and find her in the living room, sitting cross-legged on the floor blissfully shoveling in spoonful after spoonful, and flexing her toes with each bite. She looks up at me from her magazine.

"Jim, darling—"

"Heather—" I bend down and am rewarded with a chocolaty kiss along my bottom lip. Tasty, and very cheering. I love to see Heather in such a good mood, and take a moment to study her.

Dark hair back in a long braid, black gauzy top with gleaming black gems sewn on it, matching skirt shoved up over her knees so she can sit comfortably, and black stockings on those lovely legs. And the crowning glory for me—the rounded tummy nestling between her hips, visible at last.

The tadpole is finally showing.

"Hungry?" I tease, knowing full well her appetite's been increasing this last week. She gives a chagrined glance at the bowl in her hands. It's such cute expression on her face. She lifts her chin, prepared to justify her little pig-out, but I put the kibosh on it by kissing her again. Yum—I need to flavor her with chocolate more often. Regretfully let stop sucking her lips and blink at her. She sighs.

I'm not going to fit in to my wedding dress at this rate," she chuffs. I rise and help her up, pulling her to her feet with one gentle tug into my arms and she gives me a good squeeze. Between us—I feel the firm swell of tadpole, and damn it—

How do I put this politely? I . . . react. Heather giggles and wriggles against me, making things a bit . . . harder.

"My, my—Captain Brass, I think you're a bit of a tocomaniac."

"I can't help it, it's a turn-on, all right?" I grumble, feeling both aroused and embarrassed. Lately the roundedness of Heather is just so . . . erotic. I look at her and the word that comes to mind is lush. Not an ounce wasted, not a swell out of place. She's like a dark orchid just opening into heavier bloom and I'm a damn bee in her thrall, buzzing around, captivated by her mysterious smile and sensuality.

"It seems to be an unexploited fetish. I wonder if it could bring in a few clients—"

"NO." I don't say it loudly, but it's pretty emphatic; Heather arches an eyebrow; she's still smiling and I understand she's only teasing. I try to look stern and menacing. "No flaunting the fecundity—only one guy is going to be worshiping your roundness, and that's me, period."

"Ohhh—" she drawls out, one hand rubbing my chin. Heather has a sparkle in her eye, and I feel her playfulness as she slowly nods. "I accept that—although I sense a reciprocal response—not really round, though—more of an angle . . . "

Her stroking hand is getting far too much reaction, and I shift away, my face red. Heather gracefully yields, fluttering her lashes at me in soft understanding. We don't play games, not unless it's a mutual deal. I clear my throat, then shoot her a look.

"So—fed your cravings?"

"Strangely enough, no. I have a sudden yen for warm neck of police captain—" she whispers to me and I like the sound of that, I surely do.

So now I'm out at eight fifteen in the morning trying to find Swedish caviar. Talk about living your clichés—my honey doesn't do anything halfway OR cheap, apparently, and her salt craving has sent me on this errand. Not Russian caviar, no, it's got to be Swedish, which means a trip to Steuck and Baileys to see if they have any Kalles in stock. I peer through the window of the shop, dismayed to see that they don't open for another two hours; I wonder if I could flash my badge and try to pass this off as official police business . . . . A little white-haired lady peers back out at me, puzzled by my look. I play up the forlorn expression, and she moves to unto the door, keeping the chain on.

"We don't open until ten, sir—" she tells me. I nod.

"Yeah, I noticed. See, here's the thing. My wife is pregnant, and she's got this craving for caviar . . ."

Immediately the little old lady's expression softens into a twinkly smile, and it's only after she's beckoned me in that I realize what I said.

My wife.

Wow. Not even a conscious effort there—just slipped out, sweetly and easily. My wife. As in, Heather, my wife.

I must be grinning a lot because the old lady is very definitely smiling back as she holds out a tube of Kalles to me.

"Oh my, well for an emergency situation like THIS, I don't think Gustave will mind me making an early sale. When is your wife due?"

"Three and a half months to go," I admit, fishing for my wallet and pulling a twenty out. The old lady beams, making change for me and bagging up the caviar.

"Wonderful! Do you know if it's a boy or girl? Thought of some good names?"

"Not yet . . . and as for names, don't get me started," I chuff, remembering the last go round with Heather on the matter. Love her dearly, would die for her, but on the issue of baby names, my bride-to-be has some interesting ideas about what to consider for the fruit of our loins. I guess the moniker Zoë should have tipped me off, huh?

I like traditional names. Hey—I'm a traditional guy, if you don't take into account the fact that I'm marrying a Dominatrix after impregnating her against astronomical odds. I like safe, sane names with easy nicknames to them: John. Matthew. Joseph. Jane. Mary. Charlotte. You know, the names that have withstood the test of time. Heather on the other hand has a bit of a blind, exotic streak to her choices. I tend to cringe at some of them—to wit:

Magnus. Trust me, any kid named Magnus Brass is going to end up a porn star or a gun-toting psycho.

Padraic. I appreciate the tip of the hat to my Irish heritage, but again, who's cruel enough to let a kindergartner walk out the door with a name like Padraic?

Kester . . . right. Kester is to Keester, and Keester Brass is to Keester Ass, and you get the picture, which is sordid and ugly.

But still, I'm willing to saddle the Tadpole with a not-so-hot middle name if Heather's willing to go with something for a first name that won't leave our offspring scarred for life.

"Oh I hear you," the clerk comments, bringing me back to the here and now. "My niece named her baby Galadriel after Lord of the Rings came out, and wooWEE the fuss over that—"

I can imagine, and nod sympathetically as she continues, "But at least it was a girl. I HONESTLY wouldn't be able to call a grandnephew Lothlorien and not snicker. I mean what would I shorten it to—Lothy?" she shakes her head and I nod once more.

Nice to know other people are fighting the good fight for ordinary, regular names.

On the way back my cell phone rings and checking it, I see it's Zoë.

"Hey Jim, looks like my flight's delayed a bit, so no rush to the airport just yet, okay?"

"Gotcha. What happened—weather?"

"No, some extra security thingy," she sighs. "So I'll give you guys a call once I'm in, okay?"

"Okay. You're sitting in a well-lit, crowded section of the airport, right?" I demand gently. Zoë's family now, so she's gonna have to deal with the Brass form of parenting, which covers Safety Procedures When Out Of My Line Of Sight. I hear her gentle snort, which sounds a bit like Heather's.

"Yes, I am. In fact, I've got a spot right next to the Airport Security office. AND I'm wearing the plastic safety whistle you and mom got me for Christmas."

I grin. It was a joke, really, but Zoë declared she always wanted one. I don't believe it, but it feels good to hear her claim of having it on hand. I sigh a little and I hear her giggle.

"Want me to blow it right now?"

"No, no that's fine—we'll save that little surprise for when you're home. Rehearsal dinner's at seven."

"Yep, I'll be there before then—" she assures me and hangs up. I stop and stare for a minute, shaking my head a little.

Bittersweet; this gift of a second daughter. This unexpected joy in being a part of Heather's life.

ZOE

I look around the baggage claim area impatiently, checking my watch again and hear my name being slightly mangled in a Texas accent.

"Hey! Hey Zoeeey!"

I know THAT voice. I forgot how cute Mr. Nick Stokes was, and even though I know he's pretty much out of my league, hey, a girl can daydream, right? He saunters over in jeans and black tee shirt with a blue open windbreaker and I just sort of goggle for a moment, especially when he gives me a quick, welcome to Vegas hug.

Oh yeah. Friendly without being too touchy-feely, the polite and happy greeting I know he probably has given dozens of women in his lifetime, darn it. I let him go and say goodbye to fantasies as I clear my throat.

"Hey Nick. I was worried you weren't going to make it."

"Never fear, Stokes gets the job done, you know? Besides, I brought my sidekick, Warrick Brown—" he gestures behind him and I see another man stride up . . . . Oooh my. Tall and handsome with such a killer grin that I'm seriously considering changing majors and getting into Law Enforcement. Who knew there were so many hotties in police work?

"This is Heather's daughter, Zoë Powell."

"Pleased to meet you," Warrick tells me, and I assure him the pleasure's all mine. Yeah, definitely the truth there! Oh I think I'm going to LIKE this planning session. Nick grabs my bags, and we're off, heading into traffic just like that.

From our phone calls, I knew Nick was a talker, but at the moment neither Warrick nor I can get a word in edgewise. I shoot an amused look at him over the back of the front passenger seat; he rolls his eyes and Nick rattles on while driving.

"So the Oddfellows Hall is just around the corner from the church, and my uncle Vern was able to talk to the head of the chapter here in Vegas so we've got it for the afternoon. I have a connection for the cake, don't you worry, and Catherine's calling in a favor on the decorations. Do you think blue will be okay? What color scheme is your mom going with on the wedding?"

"Uh, blue I guess—my dress is sort of a medium blue—"

"Great, great, I'm sure you're gonna look great in it, so I figured we'd do some lunch and go check out the hall, what do you say?"

"I finally get a chance to SAY something?" I tease, just to watch Nick go red. In the back seat I can hear Warrick laugh in that low sexy guy tone.

"Yo Nick, I see a second career looming for you man—wedding planner. You and Hodges in business together. All you need is a dressmaker."

The tops of Nick's ears are still rosy, but he's grinning, and I get the feeling these two do a lot of trashtalking back and forth.

"At least I'm doing the respectable party—Where are you planning on dragging Jim for his last night as a single man—the Tickled Pink, or the Taboo?" He shoots me a suddenly stricken look, but I'm laughing.

"God that's right—Jim's due a bachelor party too. I take it that's YOUR department, Warrick?"

"Yeah." He admits quietly. "And it's going to be classy, all right? I don't think Brass would really be into having a cake with a stripper in it these days."

We pull into a parking lot, and I glance up, biting back a giggle as I see where Nick's brought us to lunch. I can hear Warrick groan a little, clearly dismayed.

"You're kidding, man."

"No way—they have GREAT food." Nick assures us, climbing out and actually coming around to open my door. I think I might die of shock from that alone. He waves an arm at the establishment in front of us and I read the red and gold sign.

PIZZA AND PIPES.

Under that it goes on to add: _The Best Sicilian Pizza in Las Vegas, served up with the Best in contemporary and oldies music as performed by Mr. Mick Zigler, Hammond Organ Master. Come in! Enjoy a slice and a tune!_

"Trust Nick to find the tackiest food joints in this town—"Warrick stage-whispers to me as he follows me inside.

I love it, of course.

The walls are flocked red and gold wallpaper, and the mellow tones of Bali Hai are echoing in the big dining hall in front of us. At one end of the semi-crowded room is a huge organ, the kind that looks as if it should be in the nave of a cathedral somewhere. Big gold pipes rising up from it along the wall, and musical notes are painted on them. I can see the skinny back of the organist—I assume it's Mr. Zigler, and his two-foot braided ponytail is pretty impressive, even from here. Nick nudges me towards the order counter, and I tear my eyes from the décor to look at the menu board.

Oh boy! Man, they have every combo I've ever heard of and a whole bunch I've never considered. Nick's grinning again. Warrick is looking reluctantly impressed.

"Pesto, olive and mozzarella actually looks good—" he admits. I'm busy eyeing debating between the charred steak and artichoke or mushroom, bacon and four cheese pizza. Nick laughs.

"I'm going teriyaki and pineapple myself. They're good at individual pies here."

We order, and take a booth off in one corner, diagonal from the organ. Mr. Mick is now playing a bouncy version of Hello Dolly that's impossible not to hum along to. Even Warrick is doing it. Nick scoots in next to me as the waitress ambles over. She's a rounded bubbly Latino girl with heavy eye makeup and a smile like a movie starlet.

"Welcome to Pizza and Pipes! My name is Pilar. What would you like to drink today?"

I get diet Coke, Warrick opts for a bottle of water and Nick gets a glass of milk.

Of course.

Pilar giggles at that but dutifully writes it down, then takes our pizza orders. As she scribbles the last of it, she looks up one more time and the smile is bigger than ever.

"And now, your song requests?"

"What?" Warrick beats me to the question. Pilar giggles.

"Each of you gets a request, of course. Mr. Mick is in sort of a Beatles mood today, so I'd recommend Penny Lane or All you Need is Love if you want a REAL treat, but it's up to you."

"Um---Yellow Submarine?" Nick asks. Pilar beams and writes it down. Warrick gives an amused shrug.

"Penny Lane's fine. I can live with that."

"Great—and YOU, Miss."

"Come Together?" I timidly ask. Pilar openly giggles and her pencil flies.

"Perfect. That will REALLY make Mr. Mick's afternoon. Thank you—" and off she bounces towards the kitchen. I look at Nick, and find Warrick's doing the same thing. Mr. Stokes looks serious for a moment.

"Come on, Nicky, spill—" Warrick rumbles, and we get that great Stokes smile again. He points with his chin at the organ.

"Wellll--The first time I came here I thought I recognized Mr. Mick. I went home and called my mom, because she plays for the First Methodist back home, and sure enough SHE knew him. Had both his albums—and that's where I remembered him from. Turns out Michael Zigler was this childhood prodigy from the sixties. A real genius with music, but he had this nervous breakdown and disappeared for like, twenty years. Checked him through the databases and it seems he got into drugs. Heroin."

Warrick looks skeptical.

"The DATABASES? Which ones, Nick? The burnt-out musician one, or the people-my-mom-had-a-crush on one?" he scoffs. Nick's grin gets sunnier.

"It's okay Warrick, I erased your name out of both of those for you."

I glance at the skinny back of the man at the organ and sigh a little. The music shifts to Yellow Submarine, the rich notes rolling out beautifully under those long fingers. Warrick gives a little whistle.

"Still on drugs? Doesn't seem to affect his playing."

"Nope. Apparently he had a vision from God. Claims an angel told him to open a pizza parlor and play for the masses. So he cleaned up cold turkey and talked a third rate run down parlor into sharing his vision."

Warrick and I stare at Nick, who shrugs.

"You know, he sounds like a great case study for me—" I muse. Warrick chuckles and right then Pilar's back, balancing the pizzas in her arms.

We eat. It's good. Really good. And by the time we're done, everything's pretty much set, and all that's left is to check out the hall. I'm tickled at Nick's organizational skills and I know both mom and Jim are going to be very touched at this unexpected sweetness.

HEATHER

My dress is beautiful. A bit on the large side now that the little one within is rounding me out, but I'm still delighted with the flowing lines of the creation Janos has made for me. Ivory linen with trim of antiqued lace. I'm glad it has a curved neckline and a tie sash for the back, and I'm very grateful it's long enough that I can get away with wearing flats under it. Mama is grumbling about how low cut the back of it is, but all in all she's as pleased as I am.

Jim is locked out of the bedroom while I model it for my mother, who is fussing with the wreath I have chosen for my hair. Silk roses in ivory, with strands of pearls woven through them, and a few ribbons draping down the back.

"Very nice, my Hajana. Even for a pregnant one, you are a beautiful bride." She finally assures me. I hear wistfulness in her voice and know she's thinking about Zoë, and whether she'll be around for her granddaughter's wedding someday. I smooth the fabric down on the hips down and sigh.

"I'm sorry about holding off on the reception, Mama, but next month—"

"It's all right, it's all right my dove—I know how these things go."

I kiss her, realizing how frail she's getting. Outside the door I hear Jim clearing his throat.

"Zoë's here and we have to get going soon Hon—" he calls. Mama goes to the door and unlocks it, then peers out, blocking me from view.

"Send the little one in, and go away, Keptin Brass. No bad luck is going to happen because you saw the bride, yes?"

"Gee I hate to break it to you, Lolu, but I've already SEEN the bride," Jim replies and I blush. Damn the man for making his little comment send tendrils of desire and annoyance through my body. I hear my mother snort.

"You brag like a Hungarian."

"Learning from the best." I hear him say, and then a rush of feet and Zoë's pushing her way into the room giggling and hugging and fleetingly I catch a glimpse of Jim in the hallway. His eyes light up and for one second my heart swells within me. Then he gently turns and moves out of sight.

Zoë gasps, and circles me, all excited smiles and quick nervous gestures. She reaches a hand timidly to my tummy, but I grab it and press her palm firmly against the Tadpole, who takes that moment to wriggle a little.

Zoë chokes.

I do too.

My mother comes up behind her and pats her shoulders and for a long moment the generations are united.

JIM

Reverend Book is a patient man, and I'd like to think I am too, but both of us are fidgeting now as we wait for the organist to finish her warm ups and get to the processional. Warrick looks relaxed, slouching a bit next to me. Well, a lot, actually. I shoot him a glance.

"Right here—" he lifts a long hand, and Heather's ring twinkles on his pinkie, barely to the second joint. Gold, rounded band and engraved on the inside with the three little words I remember telling her when I KNEW.

Heather doesn't know I got the ring engraved.

Gradually we get the patient notes of Pachbel's canon, and I watch as Heather glides up the nave towards us. She's supposed to be serious, or teary-eyed, but from the look on her face she's fighting giggles, probably because she knows I'm going to comment on her caviar breath. Ahead of her, Pauline is moving, looking more like an exotic bodyguard than a matron of honor, and next to me Warrick tenses.

"Why does she always give me the feeling she should be wearing dark glasses and have a wire in her ear?" he asks, and I fight my grin, nodding a little. Pauline has that panther grace that intimidates lesser men and intrigues greater ones; Warrick still hasn't gotten over how . . . firm . . . her handshake is.

"Homeland security could take a few pointers from the Dominion," I reply gravely, making him chuckle a little. Reverend Book gives us a long-suffering look. I get serious right away, focusing on my sweetheart as we all shift into position. Heather's in a pair of blue leggings with a big gauzy overshirt embroidered at the collar and cuffs—I suspect it's Lolu's handiwork. We face the reverend and he gives a little sigh.

"Alright, after Miss Jessie has played the processional, I'll state the call to worship and the statement of Christian marriage and the prayer of invocation. That's when you two need to declare your intentions. Heather, you're giving yourself?"

"Absolutely." She demurs, and even though it's a perfectly innocent response I can't help but feel the sort of thrill I'm not even supposed to THINK about in a church. Warrick's keeping a straight face by force of will, because Pauline is gazing at him with a gimlet eye.

We start the ceremony with a few adjustments here and there. I'm feeling such a weird blend of things, all of them good. Heather is making faces; I shoot her a sidelong glance and see her mouth the word 'squirming'

Tadpole is on the move. That gets ME almost smirking, and by then Reverend Book is eyeing the pair of us with that special tolerance that only men of God have.

"Is there a problem here?" he rolls out, waiting patiently. Heather presses a hand to her abdomen. Reverend Book grins a little.

"Ah—I take it the guest of honor is as impatient as any of us. Well let's make it through at least ONE walkthrough and that should be enough." He intones, and somehow we do. Pauline and Warrick present the rings at the right moment and I watch Heather's eyes glow as I slip it on her finger. Mine's not bad either, and true confession time: It feels good. Feels right, if you know what I mean.

I manage to get hers off of her again before she can notice the engraving.

Anyway, we get the pacing down, and after about forty minutes it's time to stop and meet over at El Rosales. Heather does a quick glucose check in the ladies' room while Warrick, the Reverend, Zoë, Lolu and I wait. When we get to the restaurant, it's pretty crowded, but Javier already has a table set up in the back, and it's even got the flowers I called Husky about, the pink and yellow roses.

Heather kisses me, making her mother snort and Zoë chuckle, but it doesn't matter. We eye the two of them loftily and I help her into her seat, grinning a bit; for all the tough and practical sides of my sweetheart, there is a core of pure cotton candy, and I sense that Heather is as much in love with my sentimentality as I am about showing it to her now. I'm not afraid to share some of those things anymore, which is precisely why there's an extra magic to what we have, she and I.

"So, this I gotta know, Jim—how did you two start dating?" Warrick asks after we've ordered and settled in. Zoë's leaning closer even though I'm pretty sure she knows the story, and even Pauline looks faintly curious. I clear my throat and glance at Heather, who just lets that beautiful mouth of hers curve up in a graceful smile. She nods at me and I clear my throat.

"Last year, you remember that run of rain we had? Well right in the middle of one of those storms, I saw this Miata on the side of the road . . . "

And we're off and running, Heather and I, interrupting each other, adding details. It's the first time I've told anybody how falling in love with Heather Marazek happened, and from the way it makes me feel—

It won't be the last.


	8. Chapter 8

**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and we do not have permission to borrow them. All the others belong to us, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask us first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. **

**Spoilers: "Slaves of Las Vegas" and "Lady Heather's Box" **

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

**HEATHER**

I glare at my daughter suspiciously. "_What_ party?"

She looks back, all innocence, but I can see the gleam of mischief in her eyes. "It's the night before your wedding--it's traditional."

"Zoë Powell, if there are strippers involved--"

"Gee, in Vegas?" She touches a finger to her lips, but before I can reach her she starts laughing. "Oh, come on, Mom. Can't you just see Grandma's face if there were? It's just dinner out with the girls."

I can't help but laugh too, and I have to admit, the idea of a bachelorette party does sound like fun. "Very well. As long as it's _just_ dinner--I'm an old lady, you know."

Zoë snorts, sounding exactly like my mother. "Tell that to Jim."

"Zoë!"

Her laughter is still one of the merriest sounds in the world.

Dinner it is, but at the Stratosphere, an extravagance I would have vetoed if I'd known in time. I protest, but Zoë and my mother--and Pauline, who joins us just outside--do not listen.

"Hajana, let us do this," Mama scolds. "It is important, the gathering of women."

"Yes, but--" But they're all glaring at me with loving eyes, and I give in, and let them whisk me to the top of the tower. Jim and I have never eaten here together, but it's not the sort of place we would go; maybe someday, for an anniversary--

And that makes me smile again with that odd warmth, that we will, God willing, _have _anniversaries. Something we'd both given up on.

The view is spectacular, the food is, of course, superb, and the company is the best part. I'm limited to half a glass of champagne, but Zoë gets the giggles, and my mother--well, I forgot about her tendencies. She is the most proper of old ladies most of the time, but get enough alcohol into her, and she turns into her peasant ancestresses, which means on this occasion she starts telling earthy jokes. Half of them use Hungarian words that Zoë blinks at and Pauline can't understand, but even my most reserved and sober friend relaxes enough to hoot with laughter over the ones that are all in English.

We eat and laugh and share scurrilous stories, and I keep thinking about tomorrow with a thrill of joy. I've done marriage, so this time I know what to expect from it; and this time, I'm marrying a man wiser and smarter and stronger--and kinder--than Glenn.

They do say that practice makes perfect.

I steal a forkful (just one) of Zoë's chocolate mousse and glance out the window at the panorama below. The Tadpole rolls a little under my stomach, apparently approving of the meal, and I lay my hand on the bulge, content with my miracles.

**JIM**

I should have seen this coming. I mean, it happened the last time, and while the people involved are completely different, none of them are the type to turn up their noses at a party. Well, maybe Grissom, but he's here anyway. But I just forgot.

And man, I gotta admit, this is pretty great. Warrick reserved a room at Smoky's, which is not something I'd think he could afford, but life has finally hammered a few manners into my head and I'm not going to ask. So it's me and my best man, Grissom, Doc Robbins, Nick of course, Vega and Vartan, all sitting around a big table in a dim room, meditating over the remains of some truly awe-inspiring steaks.

Oh, and somehow Warrick knew to invite Husky, which makes me suspect supernatural powers, because I don't keep my little black book in my desk. But at this point I have two glasses of primo Zinfandel and a LOT of protein in me, and I just don't care.

The waiter's already come around with the cigars. Nick and Husky passed, but the rest of us lit up blissfully; I'm gonna reek, and I'll have to get this suit cleaned before I can wear it again, but this is pretty much a once-every-few-years ritual, and I'm going to enjoy it.

Warrick reaches into his coat pocket--this may be a smoking joint, but it's not a no-tie establishment--and brings out the inevitable deck of cards, snapping into an expert shuffle. "What's your pleasure, Captain?" he asks, with that look I've come to recognize as 'Rick about to really enjoy himself.

"Hmm…five-card stud. Nothing wild…yet," I tell him. Most everybody grins, and I know that gleam in Grissom's eye; this is going to be one cutthroat game. I hope Husky and Nick are smart enough to know when they're beat; I don't know how well Vartan plays, but everybody else is damned good. Including me, if I do say so myself.

The waiters are on the ball here. Another one brings a box of chips and fades away again; technically, this is borderline since Smoky's isn't a casino, but we're not going to be playing for money and it is a private party. Nobody would bust us even if we weren't all Las Vegas' finest.

Hey, Husky's even the city's best florist.

Warrick deals. I gotta wonder a bit about his gambling addiction, but from what I heard, it was mostly sports betting--and besides Grissom doesn't bat an eye, so I figure it's okay.

I've got a decent hand to start with. I look around the table; most everybody looks like they're having a good time, even Grissom, though it can be hard to tell with him. When I compare this to my other bachelor party, which mostly involved guys from Vice, I snicker to myself. Nobody knows how to party like a vice cop, but somehow I don't miss the beer and strippers. Those guys would have laughed at this, told me I was getting old and stodgy, but those are the guys who were on the take, or who turned their backs on me after I turned their buddies in. Anyway, I'm way past the age where getting plastered and getting lapdances is a good time.

I slide a few chips forward as 'Rick opens the betting, making sure to keep my face blank. Al chuckles, Grissom looks bland, Vega gets the smug look that could mean he has a great hand or nothing at all. Husky mutters to himself.

"So I hear you got your lady knocked up," Vega says smoothly, shoving out a couple of chips himself.

I shoot 'Rick a glare, but he raises his hand and shakes his head, and I'm inclined to believe him. The gossip mill in the PD is way too efficient.

"Against the medical odds," Albert adds smoothly, and I can tell he's laughing even if he's not doing it out loud. "It takes a special kind of man to impregnate a woman who's had her tubes tied, Jim."

Some of the others start snickering, but I decide to play along. "Yeah, well, what can I say? The old Brass genes are persistent."

"Are you sure it's the genes?" Vartan asks, smirking, and I give him a rude gesture.

Stokes grimaces at his hand, and folds. "Boy or girl?"

"We don't know yet." I consider my cards. "Heather wants it to be a surprise."

Vega leans back in his chair. "You mean getting preggers after having her tubes tied wasn't a big enough surprise? Bet you nearly passed out when you heard." He shoots me a friendly glance.

I think back to that moment, that first awed realization--you don't hang around CSIs as long as I have without learning what HCG means--but I was too worried about Heather right then to get dizzy.

And the first time I found out my woman was pregnant--well, I don't want to think about that right now.

"Nope." I give him a smirk. "I had more important things to do."

I look around the table at the guys, most of whom are staring at their cards, though Gil glances up and gives me one of those looks that's as good as a wink. I've got a whole evening to spend with this motley crew. _These_ are my real friends, every one of 'em with integrity to put the whole NJ precinct to shame.

And tomorrow, I'm getting married. To the right one, this time.

Things are definitely much better the second time around.

**ZOË**

Working in a jewelry store has kind of given me a front seat to engagements--either seeing some guy come in to pick out a ring for his lady, all nervous and trying to be cool, or couples browsing. I've even modeled rings lots of times, because you would not BELIEVE how many guys tell me "my girlfriend's hands are as small as yours." Not that I mind, most of the time; usually they're kind of sweet and awkward about it, and they're happy to get a little female advice.

But that's as close as I've gotten. I've never been a bridesmaid for anybody, and when my dad remarried I was too old to be a flower girl. I've never been involved in planning a wedding or any kind of setup for one. So it's kind of weird that the first time I'm a member of the wedding party...is for my mom.

Okay, maybe not so much these days, but it still feels a little strange. Not that I mind! Jim's the best thing that's happened to her in forever. And while it's not much of a wedding as fancy goes, it's still fun. And a good excuse to buy new shoes.

I have to admit, though, the shoes aren't the first thing on my mind when I wake up. It's a fizzy kind of morning, when you know the whole day's going to be exciting and special.

I roll out of bed with a grin on my face, because there's more than just the ceremony today, though I'm the only one in the house who knows it. I didn't tell Grandma about the surprise reception because--well--I can't entirely trust her not to give it away. She's not quite as sharp as she used to be. Pauline knows, but she's going to meet us after breakfast.

I stretch and bounce a little and make a bathroom run before heading to the kitchen. As usual I'm awake before Mom, though her toast plate is on the counter in the kitchen to let me know she did her blood sugar test earlier. In about half an hour their alarms will go off, and I want to do something special this morning.

The kitchen still surprises me, big and open as it is; but then the whole house is really something else. I have to admit I was touched when I saw my room--not only was it painted in the colors I'd asked for, they'd moved all my furniture and even repacked the things I had in the dresser drawers. I still think they should make it into a guest room, but for the moment, it's pretty nifty.

The kitchen, though--whoa. The two of them probably have a lot of fun in it. Me, I'm still figuring out where they put everything.

I'm good at omelets, and I cook a big one and slice it in half while making more toast and some coffee. There's some melon in the fridge, and I snitch a white rose from the back yard for Grandma's tray, and a red one for Mom's.

I take Grandma's tray up first, and it's perfect timing, because I hear Mom's alarm going off as I get to the top of the stairs. She always hits her snooze button at least once.

Grandma's still asleep when I tiptoe into her room, so I set the tray on my dresser where she'll see it; I put a saucer over the coffee just in case, and she'll probably be up in a few minutes anyway. She looks so small under the sheets; I can still remember when she was taller than me.

I sneak back out and fetch the other tray for Mom. I kind of expect her to still be half-asleep, but she's sitting up in bed reading. I hesitate in the doorway because she looks kind of solemn, but then she raises her head and smiles at me. "Good morning, my darling."

"Happy wedding day!" I declare, and bring her the tray. She goes crosslegged under the blanket so she can support her breakfast, and I set it in her lap.

"Zoë, this looks delicious. How long have you been up?"

"About half an hour." I settle on the end of her bed and watch her sip her coffee; I had my breakfast while I was making theirs. "Ready for the big day?"

She laughs and picks up the napkin, tucking it into her nightgown collar since her lap is already occupied. "Absolutely. It's a lot less nerve-wracking this time around, too."

She tells me funny stories about her first wedding while she eats, and I giggle and enjoy how happy she looks. "Want me to call the Captain and make sure he's up?" I tease as she finishes the melon. He stayed at Warrick's last night, partly for fun, partly to placate Grandma. "The bachelor party could have gotten pretty wild."

Mom snorts. "I don't think we need to worry about Jim." She wipes her mouth daintily with the napkin. "Punctuality is one of his virtues."

Too true. Whenever the three of us have gone anywhere together, he's always been ready before either Mom or me. But then, he's a guy.

The faint sound of the _William Tell Overture_ drifts down the hall, and I get off the bed. "Phone," I explain, and dash back to my purse.

The number's starting to get familiar, after our powwows. I hit the button and keep my voice low. "Hi, Nick."

"Hey, Z." His slight drawl is cheerful. "Wasn't sure you'd be up yet."

"Oh yeah. There's still lots to do."

"I think that's a girl thing," he says doubtfully, which makes me grin. "Anyway, I was just checking that we're still on schedule."

"Yep." I don't know how they're planning on getting Mom and Jim from the church to the Oddfellows Hall, but it's not my problem, and I figure that Nick and Warrick can manage just fine.

"Grandma know yet?" he asks, and I cock an ear to make sure that Mom hasn't left her room yet.

"Nope. I'm going to tell her just before the ceremony, I think. Look, they're getting up--if you have any questions, call Pauline."

"Right, the goddess," he says, and I have to admit, it's a good nickname for Pauline. I've always envied her a little, she's so gorgeous. "Good. I'm meeting 'Rick and Jim for breakfast, and then we'll see you at the church."

"Sounds good." I hear Grandma's old-fashioned wind-up alarm clock. "Oops, I gotta go."

"Sure thing. See you later, Z." And he's gone. Moving fast, I speed-dial Gisele, and we chat for a few minutes. When I leave my room, Mom's just coming out of hers with the tray.

"Who was it?" she asks casually, and I take the tray from her.

"Gisele," I say, perfectly honest. "She said to tell you congratulations."

It's really kind of fun getting ready, I have to admit. It's never been just the three of us, except for vacations, and certainly not in a big place like this. Mom and Jim haven't finished fixing everything up yet, not by a long shot, but the main stuff is done and it does look great.

I'm in my dress and nylons already, but I haven't put on makeup or shoes; Grandma's still wearing her bathrobe, but she's done her hair in an complicated braided bun that makes me wish mine was long. And she's helping Mom get ready.

Since the wedding gown hasn't got a crinoline or a train, we decided that it would be easier to get dressed at the house rather than the church; that way, it's harder to forget something. It would still be a little tricky getting Mom into her Miata even if I drove, but one of Jim's friends--the bug guy, I think--hired a limo as a wedding present. This is Vegas! It's going to pick us up and take us to the church, and then go back for Jim and his best man.

Mom doesn't really need the help, I guess, but like Grandma said last night, it's important. So I sit on the chair at Mom's vanity and watch as Grandma fusses over the dress hem and the way the sash ties. Janos did a terrific job--I only wish he'd had time to design one for me too!

Mom keeps shooting me little amused glances, and we share private grins over Grandma's running mutter, which is half compliments, half complaints, and half Hungarian. Mom does look gorgeous. Janos really is a genius--he didn't try to hide her tummy, he made it part of the dress, so she looks like a queen from another era.

Grandma finally pronounces herself satisfied, and Mom leans down to kiss her. "You'd better go get dressed, Mama, the car will be here soon."

Grandma snorts, but off she goes. I make a quick mental note to mend the seam in her bathrobe before we all go home again--her hands aren't up to much fine work any more--and pick up Mom's wreath. "Ready?"

"Let me put my makeup on first," she says, and I get off the chair so she can have it, and plop down on the bed instead. I love nonwrinkle fabrics.

When I was little, I loved watching Mom put on makeup--though, it was the eighties, she used a lot more then than she does now. Heh. It feels good to watch her again, sort of a continuation thing. I straighten one of the wreath ribbons and tease her a little. "Got waterproof mascara?"

She doesn't look at me, but I can see one of her eyebrows going up. "Do you think I'll need it?"

That makes me laugh, and she starts chuckling too, because we both know she's going to tear up sooner or later. It's inevitable. The tough dominatrix is a sucker for weddings, and if it's hers...well, let's just say that Pauline had better have a supply of tissues on hand.

Finally Mom's done, so I set the wreath on her head and pin it in place. Grandma braided her hair too this morning, so that it's done up in this elaborate sort of coronet that supports the wreath perfectly.

She looks _gorgeous._ I can't resist giving her a kiss, and she gets pink. "None of that, or I'll start crying now," she warns me, but she's smiling, and I wink at her.

"You can always blame it on pregnancy hormones. Got all the traditional stuff?"

She points at her little handbag. "Yes, it's all ready." We'd had a good giggle about that too. The tiny beaded bag is new, the lace hanky inside is old--it dates from Grandma's wedding; she's wearing my diamond solitaire necklace as something borrowed (though the earrings are hers), and--blue lingerie. Okay, it's white, but it has blue flowers in the trim.

"Ooh, Hajana, you look so beautiful," Grandma says from the doorway, and I turn to see her looking pretty natty herself. She usually wears black, but today she's got on a dark blue dress with lace at the collar and wrists--very elegant. It sets off her hair really well, and I give her a kiss too on the way out the door.

"You look beautiful too, Grandma. I'm going to go finish getting ready, be right back."

I hurry down the hall to my room for my makeup and shoes and bag. This is going to be...really great.

**JIM**

I can't believe this. I'm NERVOUS. How can I be nervous? I've done this before, and I wasn't the canny old fart that I am now. I should have this down pat, no problem.

But I don't. Which, of course, amuses my best man no end, though he's keeping it down to a few smart-ass looks. Good for him, or otherwise my nerves would force me to shoot him and hide the body.

Warrick does look good, though, I have to admit. Nice tux, very proper, except for the tie and cummerbund; they're in some funky swirl of colors that probably has a name that only clothing people know--I sure as hell don't.

He's busy putting in his cufflinks as I take one last look in the mirror. The groom's side ended up with the pastor's office as our territory, kind of a small room, but it does include a mirror for the Reverend to check his robes before starting a service. Makes me wonder for a second what he's going to do today, since we're in here.

But I look good too, if I do say so myself. The last time I wore a tux was for Ecklie's promotion, and I don't like monkey suits--well, who does. But once in a while an occasion deserves it. Nick was telling me I should wear my dress blues, but I dunno, this seems more formal somehow.

Speak of the devil--Nick pokes his head in the door. He's the liaison between us guys and the bride's side; I saw Zoë whisking around a corner when we got here, but the women are sticking to the bride room for the duration, apparently. He's had a smart-ass grin on his face too since we got here, and mentally I put him ahead of 'Rick on my list.

"Lookin' good," he drawls, and Warrick leans over and shoves at his head. Nick ducks, still smirking. "The ladies say they're right on schedule, and folks have started showing up, so Zoë and I are going to start seating."

"Sure," I say, though I'm hardly going to tell him he can't. We've gotten to the point where we're no longer really in control of this thing; it's up to the Reverend and his watch now.

"I always knew you'd be good at escort duties," Warrick adds, and Nick makes a face at him and disappears.

I check my pockets one more time. Handkerchief and breath mints all in place. 'Rick sees me glance over and pats his own pocket with a reassuring nod; the ring's still there.

Somebody knocks on the door, and he opens it. It's Grissom, looking like he's got a hot court date. I wave him in, and he nods to Warrick. "How are you doing?" he asks me, as though I'm going to lose it any second or something.

"I'm FINE," I say for the millionth time. "What, do I look like I'm going to pass out?"

"If you do, I'm not catching you," Warrick grumbles. Gil puts up one eyebrow and reaches into his breast pocket for a flask, and offers it to me.

I'm seriously tempted, but I don't want to kiss my bride with liquor on my breath. She wouldn't say anything, but she deserves better than that, so I shake my head and pop a mint instead.

Grissom holds it out to 'Rick, but he doesn't take it either, and Gil slips it back into his coat without opening it.

"You bring Sara with you?" I ask, and he gives me one of those superior looks.

"Of course. She's out chatting with your florist."

We didn't decorate the church for this, though Zoë insisted on a bouquet for her mom and boutonnières or whatever for everyone else. Husky pinned the thing on my lapel and I promptly forgot about it, though it was kind of handy having the flower guy be a guest, so to speak. I'll bet he and Sara are getting along like a house on fire.

There's one more knock, and the Reverend sticks his head in; I guess he's got some kind of backup dressing room, because his robes are on. "We're just about ready, gentlemen. If you'll follow me?"

Gil holds the door for us and then peels off, and when I trail Warrick into the sanctuary a minute later I see Nick escorting Sara and Zoë looking proud to have Gil on one arm and Husky on the other. Then the organist stops noodling and starts playing something expectant, and 'Rick and I trade glances and begin walking up towards the front.

For a second I remember the last time I did this, and how I was lots more nervous and still half-drunk from the night before, and really happy; and then we're past the last row of pews and I push the memory aside. As we turn to face the back of the church I can see lots of familiar faces from the force and the lab; looks like Catherine's already sniffling into a tissue, and Sanders, that geek, gives me a big grin and a wink. On the other side is mostly a bunch of folks from the Dominion, some of whom I recognize; Nick's just seating Mama Marazek with a flourish in the front pew.

And I'm not nervous any more. These are friends, all of 'em; I know what I'm doing, and I'm doing the right thing. Maybe it's happening a little sooner than it might have otherwise, but it's what I've wanted for longer than I knew.

This has been the best year out of the last fifteen, and the great thing about it is I can expect a whole bunch more.

I take a deep breath, and hold back the grin. I'm ready for this.

**HEATHER**

I'm NOT nervous. It's just that the Tadpole is on the move today, rolling and kicking, and it's not helping my digestion. I'm past the time of morning sickness, but the little one is about to make me reconsider the wisdom of that much breakfast.

Pauline gives me one of her sharp looks, and I put a hand on my tummy. "Somebody's restless."

"Stress chemicals," she says confidently. "You're internalizing." And with the crazy sense of humor that few people know is tucked beneath her cool exterior, she tells me four dirty jokes in quick succession. They're bad, but I'm laughing anyway, partly from the humor and partly from her sly delivery, and by the time I catch my breath the Tadpole has settled down.

"That's better," Pauline says, with just a trace of well-deserved smugness. I have to agree. We're down to the wire; Zoë has left us to handle her usher duties, and we're to wait until the church's wedding coordinator--a tiny, kind, bustling woman whose soft voice could rule armies--comes back to give us our cue. We haven't given her much to do today, but she's handled our plans with the ease and grace of someone who loves what she does.

And there she is, gesturing to us from the door at the far end of the room. I look Pauline over one last time, and she is immaculate, as always; in deference to my bride status she is not dressed in her favorite white, but instead chose a long, fluid halter dress in a vivid deep blue that glows against her chocolate skin. She carries no flowers, but--practical as ever--has a handkerchief in one hand.

She's giving me a last once-over herself, and apparently I pass, because she nods and hands me the bouquet. It's really just a sheaf of calla lilies with a ribbon around the stems--simple and elegant--and once again I have to admire the genius of Jim's florist friend. The one lily and twist of baby's breath pinned at Pauline's throat is by no means traditional, but it is stunning.

We follow Mrs. Baine out; she shepherds us into position in the narthex with such skill that I'm tempted to recruit her for my Dominion, and then Pauline is through the doors and moving towards the aisle with her usual stern grace.

From this angle I can see a bit of the sanctuary; people are turned around in their seats, watching Pauline approach. One corner of my mind, the part that observes behavior, finds this ceremony both intriguing and amusing; it understands the importance of ritual in human societies.

The rest of me is just excited.

Pauline is out of my sight, now, and Mrs. Baine slips her arm through mine. "You're doing just fine," she tells me cheerfully. "Keep in time with the music, and it'll be perfect."

She barely comes up to my shoulder, but she's definitely in charge as she guides me through the door, and then she fades back with one last pat. People are rising, looking back at me, but all I can see is the front of the church and the broad-shouldered man standing there.

**ZOË**

Oh, she's beautiful.

I watch Mom gliding up the aisle, and I can't keep the smile down. She's using her Lady Heather stride under that skirt, so she seems to float, but her face is all real, and I can tell that the only person she's really aware of is Jim.

I sneak a glance at him, and boy, it's mutual. I never thought him a real handsome guy--he's smart and kind and sweet and funny, but no hottie. But you know, right now, you can't tell. He's got a little smile on his face, and you could put him right next to Bogey himself and Jim would take the prize.

Grandma's sniffling, though she's trying to hide it behind one of her lace hankies. I reach out and take her hand as Mom passes us, and we all turn to watch her come up to Jim and the Reverend. As he starts to talk, and they look at each other, I sneak a glance at the attendants. Pauline's face doesn't give much away, but I know her--I can tell she's pleased by the whole thing. Warrick looks like he wears a tux every day, and I get the feeling he's amused, but he keeps his face straight.

Since they aren't doing anything very fancy, the ceremony doesn't take long. Reverend Book reads a prayer that rolls out through the room, and I don't think it's the microphones doing it; he skips the bit about asking who's giving the bride, but does ask if anyone knows any reason why they shouldn't be married. Of course, nobody has any objections.

He reads out a pretty short sermon, only about five minutes long; then the Reverend asks Jim and Mom the traditional questions, whether they'll love and honor and comfort and keep each other as long as they live, and I know it's a promise that can be broken and so do they, but from the looks on their faces they're going to take this one as seriously as it's meant to be taken.

They swap rings, and Pauline hands over a hankie along with Jim's ring, because Mom's sniffling. Grandma blows her nose next to me, and I can't help beaming as the Reverend pronounces them husband and wife. Jim cups his hands around Mom's face and gives her a really tender kiss, and then everyone's applauding as the organist starts playing again, and both of them have these huge grins on their faces as they start back down the aisle.

It's perfect.


	9. Chapter 9

**HEATHER**

This unexpected surprise is . . . SO Zoë. I'm constantly amazed at the talents of my daughter. It sounds indulgent and cliché; after all what mother ISN'T proud of their beautiful, smart, charming, thoughtful, sweet, endearing child, right? And now into the mix I have to add—cunning.

For a Hungarian, cunning IS a compliment.

My daughter—my happy-go-lucky child has not only managed to stage the most beautiful reception, she's done it with the full co-operation of Jim's friends. So of course I'm in tears again, leaking mascara and laughing at the same time as I walk into a hall full of applause. Jim has an arm around me and I hear his quick murmur as he hands me a tissue.

"Chalk one up for the kid—she's something else!"

Oh she is indeed. The large and airy reception hall is beautifully decorated with streamers and silk bows in blue and white. All the tables have centerpieces of bluebells and miniature lilies, and a huge banner on the far wall proclaims '_Congratulations, Jim and Heather_', along with the date. I look at Jim, and he gives me a slight squeeze.

"Seems somebody moved our honeymoon departure time to about seven tonight—somebody who's currently dating a travel agent—"

"Warrick?" I ask, curiously. Jim grins and shakes his head.

"Husky."

I snort a little, and we sweep into the hall, greeting people, laughing, talking . . . for a long while it's a matter of making the rounds and riding on the exuberant mood of the moment. I see Jim engulfed in hugs from my mother and from Ms. Willows and Ms. Sidle—Catherine and Sara as I have been invited to call them now—and I myself am surrounded by a few of my favorite employees who demand to see my ring and compliment my dress. So much rapid conversation, so much delighted chatter, but as I'm led to a chair and told to sit I still see a few interesting things:

The first is an amazing cake, a towering confection of white frosting with blue trim. It's topped with a little crystal castle, and I blink, suddenly sweetly touched at the sentiment. The castle is from Mama—I remember it was one of her most treasured Lalique pieces that she brought from Hungary, and it's always been in her locked cabinet. Now it's sitting beautifully on top of the cake, a perfect symbol of 'Happily ever after".

Before I start crying again I look around, focusing on the other scene that caught my eye—a huge mountain of gifts, spilling over the table near the entrance. Ohh—I gulp at the extravagance. Jim and I had been clear in our invitations that we didn't need anything, but by the shape of some of the packages I can tell a lot of it is baby equipment. Again, the thoughtfulness of our friends threatens to overwhelm me and I bite back a quick sniffle just as Latice, the photographer comes up and motions to me.

"Mrs. Brass, I hope you don't mind if I take a few general candids—"

I shake my head, marveling at the sound of my new name; my new identity as it were. She smiles at me and snaps a shot or two, then turns to the reception, prowling around while I try to pull myself together.

Mrs. Brass. Mrs. Heather M. Brass to be precise—although it's going to take some getting used to, it feels very good. I feel honored to take Jim's name, and I understand the sentiment in knowing it's one of the few things he CAN give by choice. Darling Jim . . . I look around and see Zoë with young Nicholas Stokes, looking very pleased. The plot thickens—although I suspect I'm looking at the two main plotters.

Off to the side, I see Grissom at a table, quietly observing the party and when our gazes meet he nods. I nod back, feeling a surge of pleasure that finally wipes away the faint traces of hurt of the last two years. He seems to sense it too, and smiles at me, a rare and very sweet expression. In that moment all between us is well. I turn and focus my attention on Jim, who slips his hand over mine, squeezing it gently.

"Sam brought a date—" he rumbles, a smile in his voice. Looking up I see Detective Vartan standing next to a beautiful girl, rounded and solid, with the most amazing crown of red-blonde curls. She seems nervous despite the arm of the man around her and I rise, determined to put her at her ease.

After all, it's my wedding day and I can at the very least share the pleasure of that.

**BRASS**

Sometimes it's a good thing to be broadsided, and this party is a great example of that. I'm grinning like an idiot here, sitting with Heather, looking over the whole thing and wondering when I made all these friends. Just when I thought this day couldn't get any better, the sneaky maneuvers of a few CSIs manage to put an extra luster to this afternoon.

Has to be Stokes. Warrick's been too busy, Grissom has NO interest in social activities and I know Catherine and Sara were out at Lake Mead most of the day, so by process of elimination, only Nick's left.

That and the fact that he and Zoë are standing together looking very smug. Actually, I may have to talk to him about how close he IS standing, too—But nah, he's moved and I beckon to Zoë, who flounces over.

"Surprised?"

"Absolutely, as is your mother, Sweetheart. This is . . . " I trail off, a little choked up as she bends and gives me a light hug. I get a whiff of perfume and a squeeze. Very dear. Then she laughs.

"Hey, do you know who made the cake?" she asks. I glance over at it, impressed. Big affair, three layers and pretty fancy-schmancy.

"The Sweetery?" I ask carefully. I'd hate to think Heather would be denied a bite of that gorgeous confection. Zoë shakes her head.

"Nope---one of the lab techs. He did it all—and part of the back section is sugar-free, just for Mom. Isn't that amazing?"

"I AM amazed," I agree. Heather is talking with Sam and his girlfriend, who is smiling now, although I can see even from here that Vartan's hand is moving from her waist to her backside. I don't think he even realizes he's doing it, though his girl is blushing.

He's a good guy; I hope it works for them. That thought sends my gaze in another direction and yep, Grissom is talking with Sara now, the two of them off near the punch. The noise level provides a good excuse to lean closer, and damn if Gil isn't taking it, moving in as he talks.

Interesting.

Over through the big doorway that leads to the adjoining room I can hear music; the DJ is playing some mellow upbeat stuff I vaguely recognize. I get up and start circulating, sharing a quick conversation here, a laugh and a hug there as I work my way over to the grinning figure of Nick Stokes. He flashes that sunny Texas smile at me, busted but pleased and I can't help but return it.

"So, going into the catering business on the side?" I josh him a little. He ducks his head in that shy boy manner that's probably won him more hearts than the rest of the night shift crew.

"Nah, just like to plan surprises. I don't think we get enough of the good ones in our lifetimes, you know?"

I look at him—this is the man who was kidnapped and buried alive. An optimist put into one of the more horrific scenarios any living being could ever face—and he's excited about planning my reception. For a moment I'm stunned and humbled, brought to a new level of respect for this kid.

Nick sees it in my face, I know he does and nods ever so slightly.

"So, Zoë seems real nice—" he teases, shifting the moment with just the right tease. I lift an eyebrow at him.

"Yeah. My daughter IS," I rumble back at him, sending the tease right back at him. Nick grins and holds up his palms placating.

"Oh hey, total hands off, I get the rules—besides, I already have someone I'm seeing. But you better keep an eye on Warrick—"

I roll my eyes just as I feel a hand on my shoulder. Turning, I'm not quite prepared for the full on body hug or the sticky kiss on my face, but it's clear Catherine's in a sentimental mood and I'm the recipient. Looks like two of us are going to be wearing lipstick—at least until I can get my handkerchief out.

"God Jim, I'm so happy for you. Both of you," she mutters to me, "It couldn't happen to a nicer guy."

Nick chimes in, "Or a more deserving one."

By the time the pictures are done, the guests have all danced and had champagne and nibbles. Things have mellowed, and I'm aware that it's time to cut the cake. I catch Heather's eye and we're in accord—dignity all the way. No smearing here, despite Sanders look of anticipation. He's been in awe of Heather the entire time and I suppose the kid's just waiting for her to do something forceful. I lean close to her and whisper.

"See the guy with the matted blonde hair? The slightly twitchy one?"

"Yes. He came with Catherine and Lindsay. Isn't he a friend of yours from the lab?" she asks. I nod.

"Do me a favor, sweetheart and vamp it up for him if you get the chance. Better yet, sic Pauline on him."

The smile I get in return makes me feel that Greg's going to remember this wedding reception.

**ZOË**

Man, it's been a heck of a party—I'm running herd on Mom, trying to keep an eye on Grandma and in between I keep getting asked to dance, which is VERY cool. I'm sensing some competition between Warrick and Nick, but it's not for me, really, it's to keep Jim looking at us all.

They cut the cake a while ago, and I was right there with Grandma, sniffling away. Mom was radiant, utterly stunning in her gown and veil, but I could tell she was ready to change into something a little cooler, so after the cake I went with her to the ladies room and helped her into an off-white halter dress and sandals. We snagged a sprig of baby's breath and I tucked it behind her ear—the white sets off her dark hair SO well—and she came back out feeling a bit more comfortable.

Jim took off his tie and jacket, and that seemed to be some sort of signal because ALL the guys followed suit and I could sense the relief around the room. I helped pass out the cake, which was delicious—whoever Warrick talked into making it should quit their day job and stick to baking. I mean, we're talking completely decadent stuff here, rich and yummy. Mom was careful only to take a little, even though her section was sugar-free while the rest of us sort of pigged out.

One of the young lab guys tried to sneak a second piece, and Pauline swooped down on him so swiftly and silently that if I hadn't been watching I'd have missed it. She caught him by the earlobe and hauled him up, then whispered something to him while she was smiling. His eyes got huge, and he blinked a bit. Then Pauline bent closer and licked his ear, which made me giggle. I bet he keeps his sports coat buttoned for a while.

And now the garter. Already the whooping has started, and Mom just rolls her eyes as she regally sits to let Jim squat and slide a hand up her calf. They're playing to the crowd, I can see it, but more than that I also see how he's keeping his gaze on her, smiling in a way that has me grinning to myself. Mom's holding her own though, and now the crowd can sense the contest of wills here—nobody's said anything too risqué yet but the tension is there, a sort of good-natured feel to it.

Jim slips the garter off and spins it on his index finger, then turns and shoots it over his shoulder all in one fast move. It flies up, up, arching high over all the bachelors—and plops right in the lap of this older guy with a beard, who's sitting in the back. He looks totally startled, fishing it off his slacks and holding it up; I can't believe how hard everyone is laughing. Man, Nick's bright red, and Warrick is hanging on to the doorframe. It hits me that this is their boss right when Jim shakes his head.

"Pop fly, Grissom—up to you to get it to third at LEAST."

That's when the room erupts again, and I go with the flow, even if I don't actually get the joke. Must be a baseball thing. I notice that Catherine is shaking her head, and the other lady from the lab is sort of pink herself.

Now it's time for the bouquet, and I let myself be herded out with the other women. Embarrassing, yeah, but I understand the need for the societal rituals. Besides, it's a nice bouquet and I know Grandma wants a picture of me anyway, sigh. Mom stands and with both hands tosses it; a little low and over to the right side of the room—

--Right to a lady with the reddish gold hair. I think she's the girlfriend of one of Jim's buddies, and she blushes SO red as people clap. Lucky woman—as the crowd breaks up one of the handsomer guys comes up and puts his arms around her, whispering something that makes her hide her face in the flowers. The music is shifting to something familiar as I recognize one of Mom's old favorites. I sit with Grandma and give a sigh, discreetly taking my heels off under the table.

I love weddings.

**HEATHER**

The low hum is a soothing sound, but I'm not ready to sleep. Jim is completely out, his head resting on mine as we slump together, blissfully boneless on this quiet evening flight. I have my shoes off, an airline blanket over us, and so many lovely things to think about that it's easy not to sleep.

I'm married. I, a formerly independent businesswoman am now married. When I delicately brought up the subject of joint property and mentioned the Dominion, Jim gave a thoughtful nod and told me to do whatever made me happy. He made it clear that he had no problem with me continuing to run the Dominion or sell it, close it down—the choice would always be mine.

That floors me. I was so sure he'd express some concern about my keeping the business and I know it hasn't been easy for him, considering our vocations are at such opposite ends of the spectrum. But Jim's been to the Dominion and seen how it works from the inside out; he knows its purpose. He's met my employees, he's watched me fuss and plan and throw myself into the job and through it all he's understood what this work means to me.

Darling man.

I'm considering semi-retirement though—and a new idea has been brewing my mind as an alternative. I'm not sure if it's feasible, but it would give me a chance to keep working on my own terms and manage a life with Jim and the Tadpole.

A school. A private school for dominatrixes. Formal training and certification, albeit of an exclusive sort. Las Vegas certainly has the clientele base willing to offer themselves up as test subjects and lab puppies, and by becoming a school I wouldn't need to be at the Dominion quite as frequently. Pauline would make a fine teacher, as would Baccarat and Simone. The idea is still new though, and I'm not completely committed to it yet, but it has merit . . .

And then the baby kicks. I laugh softly because it tickles and because Jim instantly drops a big warm hand to my belly. Baby seems to sense this and kicks harder, right into his palm.

"Soccer player—" Jim grumbles. I nuzzle his cheek. He smells warm and wonderful.

"Showgirl."

"Over my dead body, which I will booby trap. Place kicker."

"Olympic swimmer," I offer. Jim opens one eye.

"Olympic martial arts by the feel of it. Sheesh, doesn't this hurt?"

"Nope," I tell him honestly. "It's sort of tickly."

He gives a sleepy shake of his head and smiles.

"Yeah, well if it gets to be untickly tell me and I'll have a talk with the kid. No roughing up the Mama in our household."

"I'll DO that," I assure him with a grin and all three of us settle down as the plane moves through the night.

**JIM**

Costa Rica is nice—but to be honest, I'm not paying much attention to the scenery. Heather is stretched out on the lounge chair next to me wearing Ray Bans, sunscreen, and not a whole lot more.

We're in the shade of one of those huge palm-thatched umbrellas, stretched out with our feet towards the waterline only a few yards off. I have a cold beer in hand, and she's got a tonic, minus the gin, but with a big curl of lime in it. She looks over the top of her shades at me and winks.

"I'd flirt with you, but I can see you're a married man."

Love her voice when she gets all sultry. I clear my throat and glance down at my hand. It's interesting to feel a ring there again.

"Very married. Almost thoroughly domesticated," I reply, taking my time in checking her out. Loose hair spilling over her shoulder. Bikini top in blue and gold, with those strings a guy can untie in no time flat. Rounded bare baby belly, and bikini bottoms with ties at each hip. Long slender legs, shapely feet and peach painted toes. Earth Mother of the beach, sweetly scented in cocoa butter no less.

"Makes you all the more attractive. You have the broad shoulders of a man who can make a woman very happy," Heather purrs.

I think about that for a moment, fighting a smile. My shirt's unbuttoned, my Tom Clancy novel is open on my lap and I'm all too aware that it's hiding a rising interest in her comments. I let my gaze linger along her legs. Oy those legs . . .

"Although to be fair, you're married too. Respectably I hear."

Heather gives this sigh, like a cat waking up from a really good nap, and stretches her arms up over her head. This move does interesting things to her bikini top; things I am watching closely.

"Mmmmmm, yes. Utterly devoted and helplessly enthralled too—I don't know how he does it, but I suspect it involves his animal magnetism," she tells me in a playful tone while she shifts to face me. "And telepathy."

"Telepathy?" I ask, politely even though my concentration is quickly moving from the conversation to the visual effects—Heather has begun to untie her bikini top. This is . . . very interesting. After all, we are on a private beach but still—

She pulls it off and slowly rises, dropping the little scrap of cloth on the lounge behind her, looking completely confident and comfortable standing there and I'm not really breathing now. Heather is in her element, serene and sensual, her dark hair blowing in the breeze, full lips in an enticing smile. A Goddess on the sand; demure in her semi-nudity as she holds out a hand to me.

A hand with my ring on it.

"Telepathy. He can read my mind and know exactly when it's the right time to go back inside."

"Damn it," I tell her in gruff, heartfelt tones. I feel my stomach tighten with pleasurable anticipation, and so much warmth radiates through the very core of me that I'll never be cold again, not with this kind of love. "Your husband is one HELL of a lucky guy."

Into my arms she slides, dropping little kisses all along my chin until she reaches my mouth and plants a good one on me, deep and loving and slow. Then she sighs, pressing the Tadpole up against me.

"If you think he's a lucky husband, wait until you see the kind of dad he's going to be," she whispers.

My arms tighten around her, and I know out of all the undeserved blessings that have ever touched my raggedy scarred-up soul, these two are the best.

Are the ones worth everything to me.


	10. Chapter 10

**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and we do not have permission to borrow them. All the others belong to us, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask us first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. **

**Spoilers: "Slaves of Las Vegas" and "Lady Heather's Box" **

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

**JIM**

It's a beautiful evening, and I've got the woman of my dreams in my arms as we sway to the music; over her shoulder I can see the ocean, the little waves curling onto the beach, and the sunset breeze is just cool enough. And then I realize that--

--We're both naked. This is not necessarily a bad thing, but before I can decide, Heather pulls her head back and tells me it's time to get up.

Dammit. It's a dream.

It takes a minute to pry my eyes open. But there's my beautiful bride, leaning over me with a sultry smile; too bad that in reality, she's already dressed. "Coffee's on, darling," she purrs, and I make a grab for her.

I'm too sleepy to make it quick enough, and Heather slides out of reach with a laugh. I glare at her, trying not to grin. "Come back to bed."

She shakes her head and folds her arms. "I'd love to, but I have a meeting in an hour, and YOU have to be at work thirty minutes after that."

Dammit again. I glance over at the clock, and sigh. "If you insist."

Heather comes back into range to bend down and give me a quick kiss, and I resist the temptation she presents, instead just enjoying the moment. I reach up to touch the Tadpole--much more than a bump now, at seven months.

Then she's straightening again, running her own hand over her stomach in a circular motion. "Excuse me a minute."

She vanishes into the bathroom, and I keep my amusement to myself. "Peeing for two" was how Doctor Phair put it, and it's a good thing we don't go in for long car trips most of the time, because it seems like Heather is in there half the day.

I stretch again and pull myself out of bed, reaching for the robe I dropped on the floor this morning. It's been a long week and I'm short on sleep, but somehow having Heather around makes it easier to get up--or maybe she just puts me in a better mood, I'm not sure.

By the time I've finished my shower and shave and come down to the kitchen, Heather's finished scrambling eggs. We usually take turns doing dinner, but most of the time she handles breakfast, because she HAS to get up and eat something.

Given how long it usually takes me to wake up, I'm not complaining.

I pour a cup of coffee and suck some of it down gratefully. "Refill?" I ask, then realize that Heather doesn't have a cup at all.

She shakes her head and scoops the eggs onto two plates. "My tummy's not happy this morning."

I nod and sit down. She's way past morning sickness, but it's been replaced with heartburn, which the doc says is normal. Heather keeps grumbling that she didn't have this problem with Zoë, but sometimes I wonder if she just doesn't remember.

Heather sits, and starts buttering toast. "Are you working later?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "No, tonight's the night that Pauline takes over as Mistress pro tem. We're going to discuss the schedule, and then I'll come home and probably spend the night online."

I nod, and swallow my mouthful. I'm not much of an Internet user myself, but Heather's an expert. When we moved in to the new place, she got some kind of setup so she can go online from her laptop anywhere in the house.

Me, I'm just happy if I can get my e-mail at work.

"How's the Tadpole?" My eyes drop to the swell of her tummy, which is just visible above the table.

Heather drops a hand to it for another rub. "Busy today--lots of bumps." She's got that small secret smile I've seen before on pregnant women, the kind that sort of makes a guy feel left out but also makes him feel all protective.

"Well, remember what I said. The kid gives you any problems, I'll take care of it." I give her my best cop glare, and Heather chuckles, the low sound I love to hear.

"Yes, darling," she teases, and I have to grin back.

It's been a long time since I've been part of a family, or shared space with someone else. We're still in the early stages here.

But I've got a really good feeling about this.

**HEATHER**

The house is quiet when I get back after meeting with Pauline, but it's a welcoming sort of quiet. The lights are still on next door, despite the fact that it's after midnight, and I have to wonder if our neighbors are puzzled by the hours we keep. We've met the couple across the way, who both work at Desert Palms, but our conversation wasn't long enough to go into detail about working the night shift. It's hard to run into one's neighbors past eleven, anyway.

I put on some soothing piano solos to get me in the mood for work. It's a CD by one of Jim's colleagues, some kind of private pressing; the music is complex and smooth both, the sort of jazz that conjures up smoky venues and laid-back geniuses on stage. We've actually got speakers in most of the rooms; Francisco insisted on installing the system as a wedding gift, saying that he got a deal on it. I didn't ask. He handles the Dominion's maintenance with superlative skill, and I've learned not to question.

I kick off my shoes, make myself another cup of chamomile tea--it helps with the sour stomach--and settle on the couch with my laptop. It's time to start investigating birthing centers. Both University Hospital and Desert Palms have great maternity departments, and I know there are a couple of other centers in Las Vegas that are not directly connected with medical facilities, so I pull them all up. The latter are mostly for comparison, however; Jim, who is skeptical about anything less than a maternity ward to begin with, has already stated emphatically that he wants me within arm's reach of a "real doctor" in case something goes wrong.

I can't say that I blame him. If I weren't diabetic, I might be tempted by some of the smaller centers, but for the safety of the child, we really need to be at a hospital. I linger over some of the more outré options offered--it would be fun to tease Jim with the idea of giving birth underwater, for instance--but finally I settle down to serious research.

As it happens, there's not a lot of difference between the two hospitals' facilities. Both offer environments that are much less clinical than the room where I gave birth to Zoë, and both are high-quality, accredited places. In the end, I may just ask what Dr. Phair recommends.

The next step is looking into Lamaze classes. I took them prior to Zoë's birth, but a refresher course would definitely be welcome, and Jim will--I hope--want to be a part of them. He's never said much about Ellie's birth, but given the time and the circumstances, I strongly suspect that he wasn't very involved.

Fortunately, the city that demands so much from its guardians also provides--there are classes available at almost any time of day or night. I write down a few of the more convenient ones to give Jim later, so he can decide which one fits his schedule best.

And then, after that burst of efficiency, I close my laptop and set it aside, and stretch out on the couch so I can rub my stomach. It's very odd--I've been cutting back a little on my hours since we got back from our honeymoon, but this is the first time in quite some time that I've been idle at home, and it feels strange. I was planning to continue part-time at work for a while, but Dr. Phair told me quite firmly that I needed to take it easy for the rest of the pregnancy. Not that there was anything wrong, but as she said, we wanted to keep it that way.

And any dominatrix worth her whip knows that there are times when even the Mistress must obey the expert.

I'm no further than a phone call away, of course, and I can go in if need be, but frankly I don't expect there to be much need. I've long wondered why Pauline, who is superlative at her job, has refused to strike out on her own…and I'm still wondering. But I have no doubts that she can run my Dominion with an iron hand under the proverbial velvet glove.

Though she really prefers silk.

My Dominion. It really is mine, both legally and in spirit. I built it from the ground up; I designed its aspects, planned its layout, chose its clients and its décor and its atmosphere. I delegate now, yes, but I have final control over everything from the schedule to the costumes to the tiny detail on the crop handles.

And yet…

And yet, it doesn't seem to be quite the lodestar that it has been for me since I started it. My interest hasn't waned, exactly, but it has changed.

I feel the bumps and pokes of the small being within me, and imagine her or his tiny form, for a little while longer still enclosed and protected. It isn't this child that has shifted my focus, nor is it my beloved Jim; they're part of the change, I guess, but not the cause. It's just that I am thinking of doing…other things.

Maybe it's because my Dominion has reached its optimum level. It's the perfect size for its market, and there are no major projects waiting to be accomplished. I have as many regular clients as I can handle and a small waiting list. Creation has in large part given way to maintenance.

Not that this is a BAD thing, by any means. But I'm finding I have the urge to create again.

The market for my Dominion's services tells me something--that there's a market for a more individualized service. And there's an idea blooming slowly in my mind.

Classes. Courses for those wanting to learn how to be proper dominants. Classes in the rules, the rituals, the traditions--and the practicalities. How to express that side of one's nature without bringing harm to others or oneself.

It's still a small idea, without much detail as yet. But as I shift into a more comfortable position in preparation for a nap, I nurture it carefully. This has potential.

And then I sigh, and sit up. No nap until I hit the bathroom…again.

**JIM**

It used to be that when I got off work, a lot of times I wouldn't go straight home. I'd swing by the grocery store for something, or stop off at the bookstore to see if the latest Pamela Dean novel was in, or maybe spend an hour or so at one of the quieter bars off the Strip. Nobody was waiting for me at home, so I had no reason to hurry.

Nowadays, I like to go straight home. Half the time the house is still empty because I'll beat Heather there, but it's a lot nicer to go home to a space you share with somebody you love. And now that she's not working…

But today, halfway home, I pull over into a convenient parking lot and shut off the engine. There's something I need to do before I get home, something that has to be done in private. It's not that Heather can't know about it, but this won't be easy, and I don't want her to have to hear me yelling at someone clear across the country.

I punch in the number slowly. I never got around to telling Karen I was seeing someone. Not that it's any of her business personally, but she deserved to know that she wasn't the beneficiary of my life insurance any more, and I've been putting it off. Hindsight tells me I should have done it earlier, then this wouldn't be such a shock and I'd stand a better chance of getting what I want without a hassle.

But it's not Karen who answers, it's her mother. It doesn't really surprise me; the two of them were always pretty close.

"Hi, Elaine," I say in response to her neutral "hello". I don't expect her to recognize my voice any more, but I hear her pull in a breath.

"James. How are you?"

It's her polite voice, and I know she's no more interested in my health than I am in telling her about it. "I'm fine. May I speak to Karen, please?"

"She's lying down right now. Is there something I can answer for you?"

Now, Elaine never thought I was good enough for her little girl, but when Ellie died we kind of had a fragile truce, and it occurs to me that if Elaine's willing to help me out, this could go a lot smoother. "I don't know, maybe there is. Do you still have the stuff boxed up from when Ellie was a baby?"

She hesitates a second. "We might, yes." Which is as rhetorical as my question. Neither of them throws stuff like that away; it's all probably sitting neatly folded and waiting for who knows what.

"If you still have my aunt's christening gown, I'd, um, like to have it."

This time the pause is a lot longer. Elaine's a smart woman; I know she's picking up on all the stuff I packed into that sentence. I chew on my lip and wait for her to answer. If she decides to get nasty about it, I can remind her that the gown technically belongs to my family, but that kind of thing is hard to enforce at this distance--

"I believe we do," she says at last. Very slowly, so she doesn't pick it up, I let out a breath. "Is that all you need?"

"That's it," I tell her, letting her know we won't have to squabble over old toys or booties. "You can just send it to me care of the LVPD; I'll reimburse you the postage."

"I'll do that. And don't worry about it." She hesitates again. "Congratulations."

Wow. There's no sarcasm in her tone. I'm…floored. "Thank you," I say, and mean it. "And for the effort."

"Take care," she says, her voice neutral again, and then she's gone.

I close my phone and sit back, relaxing a little. That was a whole lot easier than I expected, and probably easier than I deserved. I'll have to write Karen a letter, tell her about the policy switch, but I don't think she'll bother calling me up to complain about it.

I hope.

Maybe it's the fact that I don't have to worry about that call anymore, but I'm really tired by the time I get home. I fit my car in next to Heather's Miata in the garage, and it suddenly occurs to me that while we got a really nice car seat from Catherine as a wedding present, the Miata may not be all that practical a vehicle for hauling around a newborn.

I set the thought aside for the moment and slog inside. The main floor is full of Gershwin and the smell of…mmm…pork loin, I think. My mouth starts watering on the spot, and I pull off my badge and gun to set them down at the little table near the garage door.

And then I look down at the holster in my hand as another thought hits me.

I'm still standing there when Heather's hands snake up over my shoulders. Normally when she comes from behind she wraps her arms around me, but she really doesn't have the room for that anymore; even this way I can feel her bump pressing against my back. "What is it, darling?" she asks. "You've been staring at your gun for at least two minutes."

I sigh and set it down, and turn around to kiss her. "I need to get the gun safe out of storage."

Heather rests her hands on my shoulders, blinking, and I can tell that the issue hadn't really crossed her mind either. "Oh. Yes. Well…you have a little time to do it--the Tadpole won't be up to pulling things off tables for at least a few months."

I shake my head firmly. "Nope. I want my service pistol under lock and key by the time the kid's born. No loose guns in a house where there's a baby."

She glances over at the little table. "Maybe a smaller one? Your gun safe is rather large for that corner."

This is true. I don't own many weapons, just a couple of handguns and my father's rifle, but the safe would kind of stick out. "Maybe a wall safe. I think that wall's deep enough for one."

Heather nods, and lets me go, but I can tell that something's bothering her. I put my hands on her shoulders in turn. "What is it, hon?"

She hesitates, and I wait. Whatever it is, I can tell it's important.

"Jim…" she says finally. "Are you going to want to teach the Tadpole how to handle a gun when it's old enough?"

"No." No question about it, no way. "Kids and guns do NOT mix. If he or she wants to learn, they can wait until they're twenty-one."

Heather's shoulders relax, and she gives me one of those soft warm smiles that turn my insides to mush. "Then we're in total agreement, darling."

She leans in for another kiss, and I enjoy it. Just one more thing that proves we're right for each other.

Dinner is delicious--it always is. I remind myself to make sure to cook dinner on Saturday, since Heather'll probably be handling it during the week. I ask her how she liked her first day off, and she gives me that eye-rolling look that tells me she was probably bored out of her mind by eleven.

"I got a lot done," she admits, "but I'm certainly not used to spending so much time idle."

I set down my fork and lean over to put a hand on her tummy. "Just think of it as spending more quality time with the Tadpole."

"As if I could get away," she protests, but she's smiling.

**x**

Cream. That's all I can think of. Well, and chocolate.

It's not my fault, really. And it's funny, because I've never really liked that kind of metaphor--always seemed a little silly. I mean, comparing women to groceries? Nah.

But now, watching Heather undress…

She does seem to glow a little, but it's not that, or only partly that. She's put on some weight besides the baby itself, and while she's being extra careful, Dr. Phair says that she's right where she should be.

And that's what gets me. I loved Heather the way she was before, slim and sleek, and no doubt I will again. But now she's rounder, breasts and hips and thighs and the wonderful curve of her tummy--all soft, all rich and plump.

She looks so edible. And the best part is--I can.

So when she reaches for the long loose silky thing she got when she couldn't fit into her regular nighties, I shake my head. "Leave it," I tell her, and pat the mattress beside me.

She looks over and raises a brow, obviously debating, and I grin at her. "It's only going to come off again, sweetheart."

Heather sniffs, a little smile on her lips, and tosses the gown back over the chair. "No complaining later when my feet get cold," she warns.

I just hold up the covers so she can slide in. If I have my way--and I have no doubt that I will--she'll be plenty warm all night.

She snuggles up close, resting her hands on my chest and looking down into my face. I run one hand down her side to her waist and move in, feeling the roundness under my palm. A ripple runs under the skin, a tangible reminder that the baby is there, safe in the miracle of Heather's body.

A little, secret smile graces her face, and for a moment the three of us are quiet together, a nascent family. Then I let my hand wander back out and over, to the curve of her backside, and her smile turns wicked. "So what did you have in mind?" she asks, lowering her head so the words come out against my lips.

It's easy to fill my hands with the lushness of her rear, to open my mouth to taste her. "Dessert," I tell her, and demonstrate.

**HEATHER**

I really don't enjoy this part of the procedure, but it's necessary. Dr. Phair smears the gel around the dome of my belly and I shiver at the chill, and Jim's hand tightens on mine. He seems to have a need to touch me whenever we undergo this procedure, despite the fact that it is neither invasive nor painful; but I certainly don't mind.

"I'm not anticipating any problems," Dr. Phair says cheerfully as she picks up the transducer and fiddles with the machine. "Your twenty-week sonogram showed a fine healthy baby. But I like to keep a closer eye on mothers with chronic health issues."

I nod, watching as she presses the transducer firmly to my belly. Part of me keeps expecting to feel vibrations, even though I know that's nonsense, but there is only the pressure of the device as the doctor moves it across me. Her eyes are on the screen of the machine, which I can just see from this angle.

"Restless today," she comments, as the fuzzy image moves, one little leg stretching and then retreating. It's a thrill to see the picture, however unclear, of our Tadpole; I glance up at Jim, and he's staring at the screen too, absorbed.

Then he looks down at me and smiles. "It's a miracle," he says quietly, and I have to agree.

"Ah! There we go," the doctor says. "Do you still want to know the gender?"

Jim and I exchange one more look, and then he turns to Phair. "Yeah, that'd be good."

The last time I underwent this procedure, we asked to find out the sex of the Tadpole, but Dr. Phair couldn't get a clear enough image; the baby was in exactly the wrong position. Now she chuckles, and points to a portion of the screen that is no clearer to me than any other. "You have a little girl."

Jim's hand squeezes mine, hard, and I see him blinking a little. "What are the odds?" he asks, his voice slightly rough.

"About eighty-five percent," the doctor admits, moving the transducer again. "Sometimes the image seems to be perfectly clear, and then we get a surprise at delivery. But I think you're safe in picking out pink clothes."

A little girl. Another daughter. I would have been delighted with either, but I love the idea of an elfin girl with Jim's deep eyes and his laugh…

"Are you all right?" I ask him. He's still staring at the screen, and I can see the trace of moisture at the corners of his eyes, but then he blinks again and turns to me.

"I'm fine, sweetheart." And I can see in his eyes that it's true. He's lost one daughter, but he's gaining another. His free hand hovers over my belly, but it's still smeared with gel. "A little girl, huh?"

Dr. Phair sets the transducer aside and wipes my abdomen with a soft paper towel. "I'll run it past the radiologist, of course, and he'll get back to you, but everything looks just fine."

Jim lets my hand go, and takes the towel from her to finish cleaning me, a habit I find endearing. "We're still on target for mid-September?" I ask.

She nods. "Are you getting enough rest, Heather?"

"I'm only working from home, and not very much," I tell her. It's true that my energy levels have dropped over the past couple of weeks, and at this point I'm glad she ordered me to step down temporarily. The Tadpole is requiring more and more of me, and while I've been spectacularly fortunate with this pregnancy so far, I have no desire to push my luck.

"Good." She gives me a stern look. "Keep checking your blood sugar every few hours. Fluctuations are much more common in pregnancy, and while a mild episode won't harm the baby, it's wiser to avoid it entirely, eh?"

She pats my knee as I pull down my shirt, and I nod obediently. The health of this little one is of paramount importance right now, and I have no intention of arguing with her.

Jim helps me off the table, and we go back out to Dr. Phair's office for the usual reminders to eat well and rest, before leaving.

Jim insists on handing me into the car, a courtesy I find adorable; but when he starts the engine he doesn't back out of the parking space; he just stares out the windshield blankly. Worried, I reach over and touch his arm. "Jim, darling, what's the matter?"

He shakes his head slowly, and turns in his seat, wonder spreading over his face. "A daughter. We're going to have a little girl."

His hand spreads over my belly, gentle and reverent, and my smile answers his as my hand covers his fingers. "Are you ready?" I ask.

"Hell no," he answers promptly. But as he caresses the swelling of our child, I know he is. He's ready to be a father again, and the best one he can be.

He leans over, and we share a long, sweet kiss there in the parking lot before we separate to put on our seat belts. As he backs out of the space, a new thought fills my mind. We've gone over lists, discussed the issue…but we've come nowhere near a decision. "Um, Jim…"

He puts the car in forward and glances over. "Hmm?"

"What are we going to NAME her?"


	11. Chapter 11

JIM

Husky Belden is a really happy guy, and this time, I'm the reason why. He loves people who plan ahead, and I'm doing just that this morning, in a big way.

Ordering flowers for someone special; soon to be two someone specials, if you get my meaning. I don't want to wait until the last minute, and considering the due date's in about two weeks now, it's probably the last time I'll HAVE time to think of it—hence the phone call.

"So, we have some standards you know—blue for boy, pink for girl, " he tells me with a grin in his voice. "Got any hints here, Jim?"

"I'm thinking daisies," I reply, trying to keep my voice neutral, but something must be coming through because I hear his deep laugh on the other end of the connection.

"Good enough—I have some Shastas coming in later this week—will you be needing them that soon?"

"Mid-month, " I tell him cheerfully. "Around the fifteenth or so. Any way I can just send you a page?"

"Works for me—what hospital?"

"That new state of the art birthing center at Palms," I reply, feeling a surge of happy anticipation--Husky always comes through, and I know whatever he puts together is gonna be a knockout. Over the phone he laughs again low and happy.

"Mr. Tight-lipped. I can TELL you know what Baby Brass is and you're not going to spill it. Fine friend YOU turned out to be, Jimbo."

"Better at this than at poker," I remind him, and hang up after he laughs again, assuring me the bouquet will be there. I feel better and cross his name off the list in front of me on the desk. So far I've cleared my family leave, arranged for Heather's insulin supplies to be delivered Fed Ex straight to the house, finished putting together the baby swing and gotten a hair cut.

That last one was Heather's suggestion, since she mentioned she'd want pictures of baby and me, and that if I was looking shaggy I'd always notice it in the photos every time I would look at them later.

This is scary. She knows me well enough to pick up on that, and offer a solution. I'm still shaking my head about that one, and wondering if she's at home getting through HER half of the master list.

HEATHER

I feel like a beached whale. I'd forgotten how ungainly pregnancy makes me, how my feet ache in a different way than they do from my high heels, how my indigestion burns. I don't dare sit in the new rocking chair because I simply cannot get out of it without help now, and as for seat belts—

Thank goodness this stage is coming to an end. Ecstatic as Jim is to see me so gravid—his word for my 'sneaking a beach ball around under my dress' stage—I'm feeling a bit sorry for myself. It's embarrassing to admit what really bothers me most but it's this: I waddle now.

I feel like a duck!

My mother grumbles to me that for centuries good Hungarian women have given birth in the fields and returned to the harvest. When I point out she had ME at the Squaw Valley hospital she just snorts and pretends not to hear. I have no intention of bearing my Brassling anywhere other than the hospital, and just because I have modern amenities at my disposal doesn't make low back pain any easier to bear.

On top of it all, Doctor Phair has me testing my blood sugar six times a day now, and while I understand why, it still hurts.

In an effort to break out of my pre-baby blues, I look at the list in my hands, feeling some pleasure at the number of items crossed off. I've bought a breast pump, stocked up on diapers, wipes and onesies, sent off my thank you notes for the wedding presents and put the Dominion schedule in Pauline's hands. She's gracious but firm with me about calling—I'm not allowed to, apparently. For the moment I'm happy with that arrangement, since my second in charge has always been more than capable of running things smoothly. She's aware that I'm preoccupied, and I appreciate that Pauline understands my mental state right now in a way Jim never will. A woman to woman thing; a mother to mother thing.

And then there is Jim. A better man I couldn't have for this, really. He took the Lamaze course with me and never flinched, not even during the graphic birth video, which I didn't remember being quite so . . . graphic, myself. We both felt self-conscious about our ages compared with the other couples there, but our instructor took it in stride and commended us for being there, which helped. And Jim's coaching was very soothing. I love his voice, I love his gentle demeanor. I love him.

With a sigh I look at the list again. Jim has crossed off 'vacuum the living room' since he doesn't think I should do that, but I'm feeling a low-key restlessness that Doctor Phair tells me is nesting syndrome. I ease my way up out of my padded kitchen chair and rub my aching lower back for a moment, looking around. I love my kitchen. Lately I've been feeling a lot of love for everything. This house, my marriage, my new vacuum cleaner—

Nesting is one of the few aspects of all this I enjoy. I open the kitchen pantry and pull out my lovely Dyson, grateful once more to Detective Vartan and his lady friend for it, and push it out towards the living room. After plugging it in, I proceed, feeling both amused and efficient, dragging it over the carpeting, wondering if I look like June Cleaver now instead of a Dark Mistress of the Night. The Dominion has always had a top rated cleaning service, and while Dolores and her sister still stop in once a week and do a lovely job with the upkeep of this place, I like running my own household too, and a simple little chore like this is enough to keep me happy for the moment.

I glide the wand around the coffee table humming a little, and then I feel it.

Uh oh. A slow flowing gush down the inside of my thighs, drenching my underwear and leggings, leaving me mortified and panicked for a few seconds. I've wet myself? Oh LORD—I know my bladder control has been strained by this pregnancy, but—

Then it dawns on me that it can't possibly be my bladder. I grimace a little, and drop the wand, waddle to the downstairs bathroom and check. Not urine, and not stopping either, the clear flow pretty imperative at this point. I fish for a few pads from the cabinet under the sink and grin at my reflection in the mirror, feeling my adrenaline surge even as I catch my breath.

Jim. Must call Jim. Nothing's wrong, it's just our timetable's been bumped up a bit. I find my cell phone even as I eye the stairs wearily, knowing I am NOT going to the hospital with wet leggings and wondering if can I get up there and back without Jim having a fit about it—

I hit the button and hold my breath. After two rings I hear my darling.

"Hey hon—" he sounds pre-occupied. Good. I slowly begin to climb the stairs.

"Darling. I think you need to come home now," I blurt. I can hear his chair scrape and the fumbling sounds of paper.

"Heather?" his tone is sharp, his worry clear. I know I must be grinning foolishly but I keep my voice calm.

"My water broke a few minutes ago, and it's probably a good idea to go to the hospital, don't you think?"

"Jesus, I'll be right there—" he growls. I manage a few more stairs and chide him.

"Please, Jim--calm down—I'm not feeling any labor pains, and my sugar levels are fine. This isn't an emergency by any means."

"Yeah right—listen, have you called Phair yet?"

"She's next on my list," I tell him honestly. I've reached the landing; only six more stairs to go. Jim gives a big gusty sigh into the phone.

"Wow, okay, I'm on my way, Heather I love you, don't DO anything."

"I won't have the baby without you, darling," I tease, knowing full well that labor takes hours. He's reluctant to hang up, but I assure Jim he'll drive more safely if he does and firmly disconnect us. The next call is to Doctor Phair's office and I'm finally at the top of the stairs, hurray.

"Well, sounds like our little one is a bit anxious to make an appearance! Fair enough—her birthweight's more than good and if you've ruptured bag of waters then you and Jim need to come to Admitting and we'll take care of you," she tells me in her calm, practical voice. My tension goes down a few notches just hearing her. Once I've hung up I go to the bedroom, change my leggings and stop to put on fresh lipstick.

After all, it's a big occasion.

Slowly, carefully I make it down the stairs, gripping the rail tightly. I can see my suitcase by the front door, along with Jim's bag and the little green pillow in it. I make it down just as the front door opens and the man himself lurches in, dark blue eyes locking on me.

"Baby?" he gasps, which tells me he's probably run up the front walkway.

"Sweetie," I respond back, grinning at him.

JIM

After that phone call I'm about three seconds off a heart attack—my pulse is thudding in my ears, my breathing is hard, and all I can think is how to get home NOW. But I force myself to be calm; to keep my cool. Swiftly I hit the speed dial and within a few rings hear Zoë's voice on the other end.

"Jim? Is it--?"

"Yep. On my way home to take her in," I rumble back, hardly believing the words even as I say them. I hear Zoë laughing on the other end.

"Then I'm outta here. Be there as soon as I can, love you guys!" she chirps and hangs up on me. I blink, but I should be accustomed to her speed—Zoë's a lot like Heather in that regard—once her mind's made up, she's onto the action phase, no waiting.

Action, oh boy. I make my call to the watch captain, who congratulates me and sends me on my merry way. Within minutes I'm out on the highway heading home, feeling such a surge of anticipation that I'm sure I must be over the speed limit for most of it. Quickly I run over the drill in my head, trying to keep in mind what Betsy told us, but it's jumbling, blurring in my thoughts and all I can feel is the increased need to be home NOW.

I park, run up the walkway and just as I get the door open I see Heather clinging to the stair rail and grinning at me.

"Baby?" I blurt. She looks fine, great, not at all stressed.

"Sweetie," she dimples back and instantly I feel a hell of a lot better. Then she giggles, and I take a moment to catch my breath. No fool like an old fool, but hey—it's been a while since I did the anxious father bit. I slip an arm around her and she clings to me, smelling of perfume and warm skin.

"I'm a little excited," she tells me. I arch my eyebrows at her.

"YOU'RE excited?"

I get her into the car; the seat belt is a problem but Heather manages to wriggle it so she can click the thing closed. I load up the suitcase and bag, then climb in and we're off.

Both of us are nervous, so we're not talking. My knuckles on the wheel are going white, and then gently Heather reaches over and lays her cool hand on my wrist, giving it a tiny squeeze. She's good at that sort of nonverbal thing.

Really good. The first time we even fell asleep together Heather wrapped herself around me and laid her head on my chest; it was just what I wanted, what I needed. It still is most nights because that warm weight keeps me from giving in to the doubts and despair that still rise up in me. When I feel Heather's cheek on my chest, I know she's home and safe, and that my heart is still beating.

God I love this woman.

For a moment I smile, feeling her fingers relax on my wrist.

"Did you call Zoë?"

"Sure did—she's probably on her way now," I reply, seeing Heather wince a bit. I sigh. "It's just the start of the new semester—at most she'll miss a few days, nothing she can't make up."

"Yes, but still—oh well—" Heather sighs, trying to get comfortable in the passenger seat.

We pull up to the doors of Obstetrics Admission, and there's already a nurse waiting there with a wheelchair thank God. Heather shifts herself into it, looking like a queen settling on a throne while I go park. It takes a while to find a space and when I finally carry the bag into the hospital, I don't see Heather anywhere and my anxiety level goes up. I look at the woman behind the Admissions desk.

The severe old lady is on the phone, and about three other lights on it are blinking, but I give her my best patient smile. "Excuse me, but—"

I get the finger. Not THAT finger, but the index 'I'll be with you in a minute' finger. I sigh and look up and down the hallway, along the waiting area. No Heather. This is NOT doing my stomach any good, and I'm about to flip out my badge when the woman beckons me over. She covers the receiver of her phone and says, "Excuse me--you must be Captain Brass, right?"

"Yes ma'am, that's me."

"Oh good—all four of these calls are for YOU, apparently. A Mr. Grissom, a Ms Willows, a Mr. Stokes and a Ms. Sidle are all inquiring about your wife and since she's just been admitted, I have nothing to tell them," she sighs.

I grin—once again the lab grapevine surges forth, and I lean over the desk, taking the receiver from the woman.

"Brass here—"

"Jim," comes Grissom's voice, a little uncomfortable even to my ear. I chuckle a little.

"Nothing to report, Gil. We just got here. Listen, I'll make you the spokesperson and fill you in as soon as things happen, okay? That will save a lot of duplicate calling."

"Good enough. I hope everything goes well."

"Me too, pal—and thanks."

HEATHER

I'd forgotten this part of childbirth. The boring part. At the moment, I'm in my nightgown (one of the conservative ones) sitting up in bed, flicking restlessly through the channels as I wait for something to happen. Jim has gone to get a sandwich, since it's past noon now, and I'm lying here trying to sense if I feel any contractions.

Nothing. A few minor Braxton-Hicks here and there. And the monitor for the baby's heartbeat is going at a steady pace, as is the one for my heart. I have a glucose drip set up, but Doctor Phair is holding off on adding a bag just yet, I've had my blood taken, and we're all just waiting to see if Baby Brass is going to make her move.

So far, I think she's asleep. I've gone to the bathroom twice now (which is quite a feat when you're nine months along and have to drag an IV pole along with you) and my lower back is still aching, but other than that I feel fine. NOT in labor.

It's also not helping that someone in the next room is in very painful labor, by the amount of screaming going on. The nurses have assured me the poor girl is fine, but it's very disconcerting to hear periodic yelling.

As I look up at the screen, I'm suddenly glad I usually sleep through the daytime hours. This amazing vapid display of reruns and insipid talk shows is not particularly interesting or inspiring. In desperation I fish for my purse. When I find it, Jim returns, carrying a plate and looking at me inquiringly.

"Filling out birth announcements early?" he asks. I shake my head and fish in the bottom for—

--A deck of cards. They're from the Atlantis casino, and have little mermaids on the back. Jim looks at them and then at me. I arch an eyebrow at him.

"Name your game—"

"Oh no—my mother told me that whenever a woman says that, I'm going to be taken to the cleaners. Living in Vegas I can tell you it's true, too," he protests gently. I shuffle them and give a sigh.

"Oh well, if you're too timid to play, I suppose I can always take up solitaire." I sigh, and flutter my lashes at him. Jim shoots me back that cool, confident look that makes me shiver.

"There are no timid Brasses. Deal, lady."

JIM

Two fifteen PM

I'm still excited, even though it's been four hours now. I mean, here we are, set to go, ready for delivery, and the Tadpole is NOT cooperating. The nurses are pretty patient, but between the waiting and the screaming from two oh six, I'm a little on edge.

I've updated Grissom with the no news report, made sure Heather's gotten some frozen fruit juice to keep her blood sugar stable, checked on Zoë's flight (which is due in around seven), and paced the halls so much I've probably taken an inch off my soles.

Then we get the call—Phair's in surgery with an emergency caesarian and suggests inducing labor. Ohhhh. Well the nurse for our room, Sylvia, relays our options and the first two have me on the verge of laughing out loud.

Option one: have sex. I'm not kidding--apparently there are proglandins released in semen that can get labor started, and by coating the uterus--never mind. Heather does not look In The Mood by any means, not with two oh six yelling every few minutes. Can't say that's going to help MY concentration either.

Option two: nipple stimulation. The is the point at which I am seriously going to start snickering, since it's certainly one of my favorite hobbies anyway, and who knows, option two just might end up leading to option one. It usually does. Heather looks at the nurse suspiciously, as if she thinks this is something the woman's made up just to keep up occupied, but Sylvia reassures her that stimulation will lead to uterine contractions which in turn will lead to labor . . .

"--Or, the most efficient thing would be to start you on an IV of Pitocin," Sylvia finishes.

Damn. And I was seriously rooting for option two.

So Heather is hooked now to an IV and they gently start pumping Pitocin into her system. She looks relieved that SOMETHING'S being done, finally, and gives me a big smile.

"We'll save option two for later--" she murmurs sweetly, reading my mind. I nuzzle her ear, thinking I have to be the most terrible male on the face of the planet for wanting to jump a pregnant woman in a hospital bed.

HEATHER

Four twenty seven PM

I'm getting uncomfortable now. The slow but steady increase in my back pain is not fun, and I'm too restless to concentrate on cards or TV. I'm dilated now to six centimeters and have been for nearly an hour. Jim is amazingly patient, but I can't settle down. When he's not close, I want him near, and when he's hovering I want him to back off.

Poor man. Not only does he not quite know what to do, he also owes me about six thousand dollars from our gin rummy tournament—he should have listened to his mother. I sigh, and began to climb out of bed again, stepping into my slippers and gripping my IV pole like a staff. Jim rises, managing a little smile. He looks sleepy and rumpled. In a word—adorable.

"Another jaunt around the halls?"

"I think so, yes." I take his hand and press it to my belly, where Tadpole is squirming happily. I guess she feels the Pitocin too. Jim leans down and rubs gently.

"So—anytime from now on is good for us—" he tells her in his light, serious voice. I get the giggles watching him address the bump with a straight face. "Mom and I love you kid, but a little hustle wouldn't be a bad idea, you know."

I snort out loud as baby gives one little defiant kick to those words. Jim feels it against his palm and chuckles. "THAT was the Magyar in her."

"Absolutely," I groan, and begin the slow trek down the hall.

JIM

Seven twenty PM

Ten hours--this is worse than being on stakeout. It's driving me crazy. Not the waiting, because things are happening, finally. Not the breathing patterns, which are kinda soothing even to me. Not the fact that Doctor Phair hasn't even popped IN yet, which is just annoying. No, it's seeing Heather, MY Heather all scrunched up in pain, puffing and gasping and trying her damnedest not to cry.

Why did I put her through this? The Demerol is barely helping, and I feel like the biggest bastard in the world, knowing full well this is my entire fault.

Me and my damned--

And then, pulling me out of my brooding thoughts, Heather grunts my name and clutches my hands hard enough to grind the bones together. I hide my wince—love this woman, but she does have a killer grip at times.

"I . . .looooooooove . . . you, Jim!" she manages to chuff out. "And right now I HAVE to . . . puuuuuushhhh!"

Oh boy. I dash to the hall, wave to Sylvia and dash back. Heather has her knees up and a comically grim look on her face I know very well.

Now or never.

The nurse shoots me a calm gaze after checking Heather's dilation.

"Well, we're about ready to go! Two oh eight is a breech birth and the other doctors are busy, so it looks like it's you and me, Mr. Brass. Here, get some gloves on and give me a hand. Heather, on the next one, push, honey--a good strong one, okay?"

Oh God, the next three minutes are incredible. Sylvia is pressing Heather's thighs open while I cup my hands under them and I can see the rounded bulge, a hard groan from Heather, a squelch and all of a sudden there's this new . . . PERSON all red and outraged and slick in my hands. Sylvia is chuckling, rubbing Heather's belly with one hand and mopping up with the other.

"B-baby?" comes Heather's weak voice, still panting.

"Oh yeah--nice and big-- an eight pounder at least! You did real good." Sylvia assures her. This is backed up by a thin indignant crying from the little thing in my hands. "Let's just check her blood sugar—"

"Jim?" Heather calls, looking at me.

I can't answer; I'm just too choked up looking down at a furious little face, chubby shoulders, and wide open blue eyes. Sylvia scoops the baby up and carries it over to the warmer, humming softly as two other nurses are working with the lower half of my wife. She looks at peace, finally, and grins up at me from her damp pillow. I kiss Heather's wet forehead, then her mouth.

Tender.

Three steps over to the warmer and I look. "Hey Sweetheart."

The little head turns towards me. Towards me! I can't believe it; my baby already knows my voice. Sylvia finishes wrapping up her little body and hands her to me as Heather is making impatient noises behind me. Carefully, I carry the Tadpole to mama, grinning like the complete idiot I now realize I am.

"Here she is," I manage in a husky voice I don't even recognize. Heather lets me continue to hold her, and merely reaches a finger to stroke our baby's cheek. The crying has abated a little bit, but not completely.

Heather is crying too, and I've never seen anything so beautiful as the look she's giving this bundle in my hands.

"Hello Daisy," she whispers, and I think my heart is going to burst with the overflow of everything good within me as she reaches for our daughter.

I am a father.

HEATHER

The flowers are perfect. The big bouquet of daisies sits on my night table amid the Kleenex and cups of water. I look at my two daughters and smile.

"God Mom, she's so perfect and tiny!" Zoë sighs for the third time, cupping Daisy close to her chest in such an easy natural gesture that I know she'll make a good mother herself when the time comes.

A LONG time from now of course.

"Well, she has amazing genetics you know. Good Marazek lineage mixed with good Brass—definitely a winning combination."

"She's got Jim's nose, that's for sure—" Zoë laughs, rubbing the little pink button on her sister's face. Early on Zoë told us Daisy was her sister, complete and whole—no half nonsense. Jim choked up but I went ahead and cried for both of us.

"She's also getting fussy—" I point out, and hold out my arms patiently. Zoë gives her up with reluctance, and settles in on the foot of my bed, watching the two of us as I gently set Daisy against my chest. The little girl soothes right now, blinking sleepily.

She's had a full day, with so many visitors—nearly all Jim's coworkers stopped in, from shy Grissom to delighted Nick, all of them happy to pay court to little Miss Brass. The moment I smile about most is the memory of Sara playing with my daughter's little toes, and Grissom timidly touching the other foot at the same time.

A little pink-gummed yawn, and I echo it, feeling accomplished and happy—

It is so good to be a mother.


	12. Chapter 12

**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and we do not have permission to borrow them. All the others belong to us, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask us first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. **

**Spoilers: "Slaves of Las Vegas" and "Lady Heather's Box" **

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

**JIM**

One of the things a detective--a successful one, anyway--has to have is patience. Right now, I'm taking a deep breath and summoning mine. And trying to relax my grip on the steering wheel.

_It could have been worse,_ I tell myself. _You could have driven all the way from Tahoe._

Lucky me, all I had to do was pick up Lolu at the airport. And from the second she hobbled past Security, it's been a barrage of questions. Daisy, Heather, Daisy, me, Daisy Daisy Daisy.

Man, I should hire her to teach my guys how to interrogate suspects. Or better yet, just lock her in an interrogation room with the suspects. They'd crack in ten minutes.

I do my best to answer, though honestly she really should be asking Heather some of 'em. I love my daughter--I've loved her from the second I knew she existed--but damned if I know every detail about her bodily functions. I'M not the one nursing her.

But my temper finally snaps when Lolu starts asking about our sex life. Fortunately for my driving we're at a stoplight; I slam my palm on the steering wheel and glare at the little crone in the passenger seat.

"We don't HAVE one at the moment, Lolu, not that it's any of your business. I'd appreciate it if you didn't ask such personal questions."

She narrows her eyes at me, and I wince internally, but there have to be limits. Heather would agree.

And then her gaze drops and she looks down at the claws folded in her lap. "Jim--I'm sorry," she says in that thick accent of hers.

I take her in, the small withered form still dressed in her favorite black, and all of a sudden my anger is gone. She's OLD, Lolu is; maybe not so much in years compared to some folks, but her body's wearing out on her, and it shows. I know she never really expected Heather to marry again, let alone that she'd get another grandkid out of the deal, and under my annoyance I know that her questions are motivated by love. She worries about her daughter, she even worries about me a little, and she's dying to see her new granddaughter.

"Some men--" she continues, not looking up. "Some men, they do not care about their wives. I know you are not like them, but..."

She trails off, and I ease off the brake as the light changes. I can't blame her, really. She's only met me a couple of times as it is, and she's just about distracted with impatience and anticipation. I keep my eyes on the road and spare a hand to pat her arm.

"It's okay, Lolu. I know what you mean. But you know Heather would kick my ass if I didn't behave."

She snorts, and out of the corner of my eye I can see those skinny shoulders relax. She mutters something in Hungarian, and I would bet a lot that it's the equivalent of "that's my girl." I grin. "She's her mother's daughter, after all."

For that, I get a cackle, and all of a sudden we're at ease.

This might work after all.

**ZOË**

I have a little sister.

It's not something I really imagined. I have step-siblings on Dad's side, but they came ready-made if you know what I mean, and we've never been that close. Dad didn't seem like he was going to have any more kids, and Mom told me that she couldn't have any more when I started asking sex-ed questions. It wasn't something I thought about much.

Of course, the news that Mom was pregnant was a big surprise, to EVERYBODY involved I guess, but even then it was kind of abstract for me. I mean, I hardly even saw her during her pregnancy--just during the wedding, mostly, and it wasn't, like, really obvious.

But now I'm sitting on the couch in Mom and Jim's living room, and I'm holding my baby sister in my arms.

My actual baby sister.

She's adorable, of course. Lots of newborns aren't really, even though everybody says they are; she did come out kind of squashed-looking, but at a week old she's as fresh and fuzzy as a peach. I love to lean down and just rub my cheek against the curve of her head, light as a feather. I'm getting in all the cuddling I can, because I fly home tomorrow and I won't be back until Christmas--and probably not for very long.

Lucky for me, Daisy isn't fussy most of the time. So I hold her and make silly faces while she watches me with big solemn eyes, and Mom sits in her rocker and smiles like a goddess. Jim's on the way back from the airport with Grandma, and I hope he doesn't get stuck in traffic, because we're all due at the church this evening.

A hiccup and a whimper tell me that Daisy's had enough of me for the moment, and Mom sets aside her sewing while I stand up to pass over the little bologna loaf. She unbuttons her blouse and slips down the nursing bra cup, and I go rummage for a clean towel because we used the last one to wipe up some spilled tea. When I get back Daisy's nursing like a happy little pig, making snuffling noises.

Mom's wincing. "Need the hot water bottle?" I ask; nursing makes the womb go back to normal, she says, and it hurts.

"No thank you, my darling." She takes the towel with her free hand, and I take the christening dress she's been working on so I can pick up where she left off. Mom says it comes from Jim's family, and I can tell it's old; she's been putting on the pearls and lace from our christening gown, which apparently bit the dust. Doesn't surprise me; that thing was ancient, lots older than Jim's. I try to imagine him getting baptized in this thing, and give up; I've seen a few photos of Jim as a baby, but somehow I can't link them up with the tough marshmallow of a cop that I know.

Mom nods at the dress. "You threw up on yours twice before we even got to the church," she says, and I have to grin as I start tacking down another pearl.

"So what did you do?"

She gives me a fake long-suffering look. "Sponged it off, of course. Mother wouldn't hear of you being christened in a sleeper." She glances down at Daisy with this incredibly tender expression. "Fortunately, people expect infants to be damp."

I snicker, and keep sewing. Sometimes I think it's too bad that we can't retain memories from infancy. I mean, sure, there's plenty that would be embarrassing, but some things would just be so cool too. Like being rocked to sleep, or your first bath, or learning to walk. But my fourth birthday party is about as far back as I can remember.

For a little while we're quiet, except for Daisy; the kid is one noisy eater. But as Mom finishes nursing her we hear a car turning into the driveway, and we trade smiles. Jim's back with Grandma.

She comes in so soon that I have to wonder if she even let the car stop before she got out. I hop up and give her a kiss, but I can tell she's totally distracted. It doesn't bug me--I'd be worried if she weren't.

"Hajana." Grandma holds out her arms, and Mom reaches up and puts Daisy in them, and I so wish I had my camera. I've never seen Grandma's face like that before, all lit up and tender--kind of like the Crone goddess out of one of Jim's fantasy books. She sits down in the armchair and just looks, and Daisy looks back, drooling a little.

"I just fed her, Mama," Mom says, and passes her the towel.

Jim appears in the doorway with Grandma's suitcases, looking a little stressed, but smiling anyway. He sets them down for a moment and comes over to kiss Mom; I see his hand twitch as he straightens, and I know he wants to go over and kiss Daisy too, but he's not going to interrupt Grandma's moment with her.

You know, Mom sure can pick 'em.

Jim shifts his feet; he looks uncomfortable, and I'll bet he's feeling out of place with all these women. So before he can escape I catch his eye and pat the seat next to me. "Wanna see?" I ask, waving the christening gown at him.

His eyes crinkle, and he comes around the coffee table and sits down next to me. "Nice," he rumbles, straightening the skirt a little for a better look. "She's going to be the best-dressed baby in town."

Grandma has Daisy up against her shoulder now, the towel protecting her dress, and she's gently rubbing the little back and murmuring in Hungarian. I'm not like Mom, I haven't kept up with it, but I know some of what she's saying--_baby, darling._ It's a perfect picture.

And then Daisy lets out a belch like a miniature frat boy, and we all burst out laughing. "That's my girl," Jim jokes, and Mom grins at him.

Welcome to your family, kid. You're going to have FUN.

**HEATHER**

We're a merry group on the way to the church. Jim's car holds us all, barely--Mother in the front passenger seat because it's easier to get in and out of, and Zoë and I squished in on either side of the intimidating car seat-slash-infant carrier that was a gift from Ms. Sidle. It looks as though it could go through a garbage compactor and come out intact--but then that's the purpose, and I'm grateful.

Daisy seems to like car rides; she lies still in the carrier and blinks, without wriggles or whimpers. It's a good sign and I hope her mood sustains through the service, though of course one rather expects infants to protest a sudden dashing with cold water.

Mother keeps trying to turn around to argue with me, though the seat belt doesn't let her twist far. "Three, Hajana?" she's protesting now. "It's not traditional."

"Given this world, she'll need all the help she can get," Jim counters, though his gaze isn't wavering from the road.

Mother snorts, which tells me she thinks he's got a point but isn't ready to admit it. "Who are they?"

"Pauline is one of them," I tell her again; she wasn't really listening the first time I explained. "You met the other two at our wedding."

"Ah, well, Pauline," she says, and settles back down in her seat, and I know she's thinking that Pauline alone should be enough to offset any deficiencies of the godfathers. Mother approves of Pauline in a big way, which always amuses Pauline on some level, though she treats Mother with grave respect. Across from me, Zoë snickers, but keeps her thoughts to herself and leans over the carrier to offer Daisy a finger to grasp.

I'm not surprised to see Pauline already at the church when we arrive, talking with one of the godfathers--Warrick--and Husky. They turn to greet us as Jim pulls up at the curb; he'll let us all out and then go park the car.

Before Zoë can even get out to open the car door for Mother, I'm delighted to see Warrick perform that service, and he offers her a gallant arm as she climbs out, which she accepts with a smile.

Husky is already cooing over Daisy as I lift her carrier out of the car; Zoë has the diaper bag over her shoulder, saving the new mom from having to haul it around. Pauline flashes me one of her rare smiles, and we all troop inside to get ready.

The key to keeping the baby fresh, age and wisdom have taught me, is to dress her at the last minute. So she's wearing a nice onesie, and Jim's resplendent christening dress is carefully folded in the diaper bag, the last pearl having found its place just five minutes before we left.

We stand in the narthex and chat as our guests arrive; this is going to be a quick little service, but a happy one, and so we've called many friends. Daisy is properly the center of attention, but I'm not going to take her out of her carrier until it's time to dress her. She's content for the moment, and I'd rather not present a howling infant to the minister if I can avoid it!

It's fascinating to read the dynamics in how people arrive, and in their attire. Sapphire is as demure as a schoolgirl in a high-necked blouse and knee-length skirt, but her indigo hair puffs like a dandelion around her head. Grissom arrives in good time, as expected, but what is unexpected--and not just by myself, to judge from Warrick's widening eyes--is the fact that Ms. Sidle--Sara--follows him in, their fingers entwined.

Francisco and Chen arrive together as well, which surprises no one; the fact that they stop their eternal bickering as soon as they step inside surprises everyone but me. I gave them strict orders beforehand. The tall young CSI--Greg, I believe--steps inside the doors, and crimson covers his face the moment he spots Pauline, but to his credit he advances without stopping and bends over the carrier to admire Daisy. He's wearing a nice grey suit, but the Hawaiian shirt beneath the jacket speaks of a less conservative taste.

Before long I take Daisy into the restroom, Mother close behind; I have the feeling that both Jim and Zoë would like to follow, but they stay politely with our guests. One quick diaper change later, Daisy is gorgeous in her christening gown, the antique lace frilling her chubby arms and the long skirt draping gracefully over her feet. My mind flashes back to the photo of Jim in this same gown, and I suddenly feel part of a long chain of family, much as I did twenty years ago with Zoë wrapped in Papa's gown.

What a pity Jim's parents are no longer alive to see this.

Most of our guests are already seated at the front of the sanctuary when we enter it, and Jim winks at me from his post near the font, where Rev. Book is standing. The good reverend's sweeping robes make him the best-dressed person in the room, aside from our little one.

Mother and I walk up the aisle together, Daisy kicking a little in my arms, and at the font she goes to stand by Zoë while I take my place next to the reverend. His voice is resonant, filling the sanctuary as he explains the meaning of baptism and asks the godparents to renounce the Devil and all his works.

Pauline takes Daisy to hold her until Rev. Book is ready for her, and we all listen and respond as he goes through the ancient ritual. Daisy's forehead wrinkles at the touch of the water, but she does not howl, only lying back along his large hand and watching everything with an absorption that belies her age.

Grissom and Warrick light the baptismal candle together, an action that could be humorous except for their absolute solemnity. I think Jim expected me to be surprised when he said that he wanted both men to take on the role of godfather, but I wasn't. They are both intelligent, caring men; they will do well by Daisy.

And, as Jim pointed out, Pauline by herself is equal to any two men, even those as fine as his friends.

After the ceremony, we move en masse to the Great Mohave café for coffee and conversation. Daisy allows herself to be passed from person to person, and I am amused to note that Husky cradles her with expert skill while Sara hastily passes up the opportunity. Catherine, kissing Daisy's waving fist, has the wistful look of a mother; Francisco leans over Chen's shoulder and lets Daisy grip one wide finger, though his fierce expression does not change.

Eventually, though, our little girl begins to whimper, and Jim brings her back to me. The two of us retreat to the nearest ladies' lounge for her supper, and when we return most of the guests have gone.

As we head for the car, Zoë walking ahead with Mother, Jim bends his head to mine. "Happy?" he asks gruffly.

I glance down at the carrier and the little sleeping face. "Oh yes."

**JIM**

Boy, is THIS familiar.

The shrill sound of my daughter in full cry levers me out of bed, bringing back memories of similar times two decades or so ago, though then it was night and now it's daytime. Back under the covers, Heather mumbles something and rolls over, not really awake, and despite my fatigue, I'm kinda pleased. She's been so tired ever since Daisy's birth.

I slog out into the hallway, too sleepy to even reach for my robe, but as I start towards the nursery I see a little bent figure slipping into the room ahead of me, and about three seconds later the crying dies down. Grateful, I turn around and go back to bed. Mama Marazek is on the job, and if Daisy needs a meal she'll be by in a little while to knock on our door. If not, our daughter will be changed and comforted and sung to sleep again, and I won't have to do it myself.

Not that I mind doing it, no way. But when I'm this tired I'm always afraid I'm going to diaper the wrong end or something.

I snuggle back down under the covers, feeling my wife slide into my arms, and let my eyes go shut again.

When I wake up properly, I can tell from the angle of the light peeking in through the shades that it's going on evening, and Heather's still sacked out next to me. I sit up halfway, rub my hands over my face, and shake her shoulder gently. "Sweetheart? Did you check your blood sugar?"

It takes a couple of repetitions, but eventually an arm comes out from under the covers and points at the bedside table. There's a crumby plate on it. I sigh.

"Yeah, I saw that. How LONG ago?"

"Three-thirty," she mutters.

I glance at the clock. It's almost six, so she should still be all right. "Okay," I say, and kiss her head before rolling out of bed and heading for the bathroom.

Business taken care of, I pull on my robe and go into my daughter's room. She's sound asleep in the handmade cradle that's another Marazek heirloom, looking so tiny and delicate and alive that I can hardly believe she's real. Gently I reach down and brush a finger over that soft, soft cheek; her lips move, a slight sucking motion, but she doesn't wake.

"Hey, sweetheart," I murmur. "Daddy thinks you're gorgeous."

And she is, too. That sort of squashed look that all newborns have is gone; she's got tiny dimpled hands and delicate eyelashes and what I hope will be her mother's nose. There's a little birthmark on the small of her back, but I wouldn't need that to ID her--I could pick her out of a thousand babies. She's mine.

And I'm hers. It's the same thing that happened the last time--the instant I saw her, she had my heart. I'd forgotten how impossible this love is, the knowledge that I will do anything, ANYTHING to protect my daughter. It's hard for me to believe that a battered, aging, far from innocent police detective could have any part in producing someone so perfect, but the evidence is right in front of me. And so I repeat the promise I give her every evening when I first lay eyes on her.

_I will do right by you. _

**HEATHER**

Thank goodness Mother is here. It's not that I'd forgotten how tired one can be post partum, it's that Daisy's birth took a much higher toll on me than Zoë's. My blood sugar fluctuated for the first week, and when it settled down I still found myself wanting to do little more than nap. Dr. Phair told me to take it easy, that my body knew what it needed, and I'm trying.

I do delight in Daisy when I'm awake. She's everything I could dream of, sweet and alert and only rarely fussy. And when I'm finally awake and giving Daisy her first meal of the evening, there's nothing better. Jim left for work just ten minutes before, and Mother is pottering in the kitchen, playing with Jim's bread machine. Normally she scorns such shortcuts, but Jim baked her a pumpkin loaf when she first arrived, and now she's fascinated by it--she usually turns out one loaf per day, each different. I foresee the latest model taking up residence in her kitchen in the near future.

She's been here for the two weeks since Daisy's birth, and will stay two weeks more, and after that Jim intends to take his allotted paternity leave. It seems a pity to me that he has chosen to miss so much of Daisy's earliest days, but as he points out, he'll have plenty of time when Mother's gone again, and it will give us both more time to spend with her, as we'll be splitting the work. As it is, I'm glad we decided on a diaper service! The laundry alone is daunting, and I am handling that since Mother is really too frail to be lifting heavy loads.

But oh, it's a relief to have her around, for many reasons. She is there to keep an eye on both of us--the last thing I want to do is experience another diabetic episode when there's an infant in the house. And she is spending all the time she wants with this new little sprout on the Marazek-Brass tree. Every time I look at Mother I realize how precious that time is. She is healthy, aside from the arthritis, but she is worn with time and work, and I want Daisy to have all the time she can with her one grandmother.

Daisy gurgles at my breast; apparently she's had enough for the moment. I smile at her and wipe the milk from her face, then lift her to my shoulder for burping, wincing as one tiny fist grips my hair and pulls. She'll be a terror to earrings, this one, once her hands are coordinated enough.

Mother comes out of the kitchen just as Daisy belches in my ear. That she definitely got from her father! We both smile at the enthusiastic expulsion of air; Daisy's a strong little flower, healthy and growing quickly. Mother sets down a cup on the small table next to my chair and takes the little one, sitting on the couch with Daisy lying in her lap.

I pick up the cup and sip the tea, enjoying the sight of Mother playing with Daisy's toes and making nonsense sounds at her. The tea is peculiar and not terribly pleasant; it's some herbal mix that Mother says will give my milk "strength". I ran the ingredients past Dr. Phair, and she told me they were harmless, so I drink it to please Mother. When she's back in Tahoe, I can toss the rest in the garbage.

Daisy spits and burbles in Mother's lap, apparently as enchanted as her grandmother, so I sit and watch them for a while. When the Tadpole starts to yawn, I set the tea aside and set a DVD in the player before joining Mother.

"What's this, Hajana?" she asks, passing Daisy back to me as the screen comes to life.

I pick up the remote and fast-forward a bit. "It's my baby shower. I thought you might like to see it, since you couldn't come."

It was a lovely event. I knew something was in the works at my Dominion--they could hardly hope to keep it from me--but I didn't know the specifics, and when I walked into the back parlor after hours, Francisco's video camera managed to capture my expression of surprise quite well. Most of my staff had stayed to celebrate.

Mother hmphs a little at first--most of my people didn't change outfits before the party--but she is obviously fascinated, and I rock Daisy to sleep and remember the fun of it all.

Unlike most baby showers, this one had several men among the guests, and it was almost absurd to see people in bondage and fetish gear cooing over tiny garments and all the paraphernalia of infanthood. But then, that is the truth I have always recognized--my workers may become icons of discipline and desire during the night hours, but underneath that they are people, living complex humans.

It's a rather jerky film, definitely amateur, but the guests are obviously having a good time, especially the guest of honor. Or should that be guests, considering that I was inhabited at the time? Certainly most of the gifts lavished upon me were intended for the Tadpole.

I watch myself cut ribbon and open packages, listen to my employees tease me gently about my rounding stomach, and smile at the recipient in my arms. From that event she got a stroller so complicated it came with an instruction video, many dainty garments, and more stuffed animals than her cradle can hold. One of the things on my list is to take her over to the Dominion some night before business opens, so that those of my people who haven't met her already may do so. After all, ostensibly I have to check up on things...

On screen, refreshments are served—small savory pastries instead of cake, in deference to my diabetes, a choice that touched me. My Dominion hasn't quite formed the family that Jim's work has, but most of us are nonetheless close.

When I glance back at Mother, however, I am amused to see that her eyes have closed and that she's leaning back, snoring softly. Her energy levels aren't what they used to be, either.

I rise and tuck Daisy into the carrier, where she sleeps when downstairs, and head into the kitchen to make supper for Mother.

**JIM**

I love a good quiet Saturday. When I lived alone, it was a chance to catch up on the little chores that had to wait during the week, or sometimes to just kick back and relax with a beer and a book. Now that I'm sharing space with someone, the choices have multiplied, but at the moment there's just one thing I want to do.

Heather's taken Lolu shopping for a few hours, in the time between Daisy's feedings, and it's just the two of us in a big quiet house. Which means that the kitchen is allll mine.

First thing on the list is a good thick stew, something that can simmer and wait until the girls get back. I bring Daisy's carrier in and set it on the kitchen island so we can chat while I cook, and get started.

She watches me as I peel vegetables and cut up beef, blowing the occasional spit bubble and blinking when I explain what I'm doing. When I stop and lean over to kiss her, she kicks happily and waves her arms, and half the time I have to kiss those little curly fists too. Yeah, I know, I'm such a marshmallow, but nobody's watching and Daisy won't tell.

By the time the stew's cooking, she's sucking her thumb in a sleepy way, though she perks back up when I start up the mixer for some cookies. I tracked down the lab tech that made our wedding cake, and he gave me a few tips for sugar-free baking that I've wanted to try out.

The cookies don't take long to mix, and I'm just starting to drop them onto the pans when Daisy starts to whimper. I wipe off my hands and scoop her out of the carrier, but a quick investigation tells me she's not wet. She's got a pretty steady schedule, so I figure she's not hungry, either, but as I put her up against my shoulder she stops whimpering and settles down, and I have to smile.

She's just tired, my baby girl, and wants someone to snuggle with as she falls asleep.

I go out to the living room and Heather's rocker, and ease us both down into it. Daisy sighs into my neck, and I start rocking, slowly, feeling that little warm weight against my shoulder grow limp.

I don't stop. I know how fast babies grow, how soon little arms stop reaching for hugs and little feet carry them out of your reach. I know that even if she never stops wanting hugs, she'll soon be too busy for many of them.

So I rock, and listen to Daisy breathe, and I love her with all my heart.

The cookies can wait.


End file.
